


Reflective Shards

by Yin



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Eventual Happy Ending, M/M, Season/Series 15
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-05-09
Packaged: 2019-04-05 04:10:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 38,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14035887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yin/pseuds/Yin
Summary: Sometimes when one stares at a reflection, they hate what they see while others might desperately yearn for it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Pairings Beyond Grimmons:**  
>  ~Potential Biff x Temple  
> ~Extremely one-sided/unhealthy Gene x Simmons
> 
> **Other Notes for This Story:**  
>  ~Err…does Gene being a creeper count?  
> ~Also, nonconsensual drug use and just a generally really dark, upsetting atmosphere.  
> ~Spoilers for Season 15.
> 
> Legal Disclaimer: I do not own _Red vs. Blue_ or any of the show’s characters. They are the rightful properties of Rooster Teeth.

When Gene was younger, well beyond the time of Desert Gulch and the subsequent madness and rage that befell it and all its unfortunate inhabitants, he often looked at his reflection in the huge mirror that his often absentee but caring mother opted to hang in the guest bedroom.

The view that looked back wasn’t exactly the most impressive: a mousey-looking boy with a brown head of hair resembling the color of mud cut in a standard, unremarkable style typical of youths his age. His skin was the color of clotted cream, and his blue eyes were neither piercing nor particularly sharp. There was nothing about his appearance that stood out, nothing about him that was remarkable or memorable beyond his doting, hardworking parents and his higher than average grades.

The overall not-at-all-remarkableness of Gene’s demeanor meant that even his reputation as a teacher’s pet often went overlooked by those bullies who wanted their victims to be more reactionary to potential taunting. In time, he learned to hold a strong distaste for those weak fools too.

When his father heard the subsequent sound of glass shattering, he raced upstairs to find his boy, his one and only pride and joy, standing precariously in a circle of broken shards. Blood dripped steadily from Gene’s fist, so it was no surprise that the shocked man asked him what happened.

The lie came easily to Gene’s lips and his gullible, all too weak-minded father was quick to believe it.

Truthfully, Gene didn’t hate his reflection or anything so morose. No, far from it. He always felt a lingering disappointment that no one else ever came close to matching what he saw floating beneath the depths when he looked upon a reflective surface.

*****

Desert Gulch was a trial of patience in so many different ways. The biggest trial was the lingering sense of resentment that Gene felt in knowing that he just didn’t fucking belong there.

None of them really did, despite their various quirks, save maybe Loco. But, Gene had never understood why someone like the big blue, lumbering idiot had ever joined the army to begin with. Had it been a prank that had just gotten way too out-of-hand? Loco…well, the big oaf always made him feel rather uneasy with how openly friendly he was and how childlike he could be. His surprising skill with inventing left a bitter taste in Gene’s mouth because someone like Loco shouldn’t be _that_ kind of a genius. Gene tended to avoid him even more than the others as a result.

Surge wasn’t exactly the worst leader he could have imagined, though calling him extreme was an understatement. Gene had learned early on to ingratiate himself to the older man, in order to best make life in the canyon tolerable, to make his plans for inevitable advancement through the ranks by sheer force of hard work and dedication all the more plausible and smooth.

Lorenzo was an efficient worker, despite the malfunction in his language software. Gene never had much reason to complain about the robot.

On the other hand, Buckey always tested his patience, but Gene rarely paid him attention outside of their skirmishes. In a way, the teal-wearing soldier with sex on the brain was someone who reminded Gene of the assholes who had thought so little of him when he had been in school, especially given his propensity to blow Gene off. The maroon-armored soldier ground his teeth and seethed behind his helmet whenever that happened, imagining how sweet it would be to finally put the jerk in his place by displaying just how much better he was than the perpetual showoff.

Cronut was annoyingly cheerful and said things that would up the rating of a movie in a heartbeat without so much as batting an eye. He got under Gene’s skin incessantly with his eager to help attitude and apparent desire to upstage Gene as Surge’s number two, but he was, oddly enough, the guy that Gene tended to get along with the best amongst his teammates. He was akin to a rash you just couldn’t get rid of and just had to learn to put up with.

Biff tended to test the bounds of Gene’s patience more than he ever cared to admit. Ever since he had been dropped off in Desert Gulch, it was like the asshole wasn’t even _trying_! To make matters even worse, Biff was pretty much the only guy in the canyon that Temple would hear stipulations or conditions from. So, of course, Surge would listen to him more than anyone else.

Everyone knew that Mark Temple was the one who really called the shots in Desert Gulch, colors and teams be damned. Gene found it especially infuriating that he couldn’t ever approach the other man like Biff seemed so adept at doing, because he knew he’d have a better chance at advancement if he had been stuck on Temple’s side of the canyon instead.

Gene often thought about defecting, but wasn’t sure of what the potential outcome of such a betrayal could be, especially if he had to reassess the situation later and once again join Red Team. He kind of hated both teams, to be honest. None of the other soldiers at Desert Gulch ever gave Gene enough credit. It was just the way of things.

It had probably shocked Biff to his dumbass core when Gene revealed firsthand how impressive his stealth training could be when he followed the orange-armored man during one of his sneak-outs in the middle of the night. He wasn’t exactly the best at being subtle, but Biff had probably just assumed everyone else on Red Team were heavy sleepers. Gene had come across the strewn-out beach chairs, the beer, and Temple and Biff sitting side-by-side, helmets off and shooting the breeze as if they had _always_ been the best of friends.

The two _had_ been, he learned later. That for some fucked up reason they had been put on opposite sides of a pointless war after they had even gone through the trouble of enlisting together. Gene had confronted his teammate with this valuable intel because he wanted to get a rise out of the other man. Biff _had_ been surprised, sure, but he quickly made the whole thing out to be no big deal, stating that if Gene could simply keep his mouth shut for a little while longer it would be great for all of them.

Gene had, albeit reluctantly, agreed. He would watch them, though, whenever Biff and Temple were together, noting the subtle cues that the others still seemed oblivious too. He seethed on the inside, because it looked as if in their friendship with one another, Biff and Temple had somehow _settled_. Gene couldn’t quite place just what he meant when he thought that, only that the notion had entered his mind and refused to leave.

Gene was never good at settling, even if it meant being alone.

*****

Desert Gulch ended up being a place of hard lessons, though Gene had always been something of an astute learner. The pointless fighting continued, Biff and Temple continued meeting in private, and that bitter feeling of not fitting in and being left out continued to fester in the pit of Gene’s gut.

…Then the two Freelancers came for what was supposed to be a relatively benign game of Capture the Flag.

Doc proved himself to be _just_ as useless and inept when it came to medicine as Gene always suspected him to be. He watched as Temple sat on the ground, armor covered in Biff’s blood as he gripped a rust-colored flag pole tightly in his hands long after the others had buried his friend’s body.

When Temple finally, _finally_ seemed to get his bearings again, he rose up once more and violently hurled the flag pole to the ground at everyone’s feet. Gene was somewhat pleased, at least, to know that he wasn’t the only one who had taken a step back at Temple’s action.

“We have a lot to do if we’re going to make sure they pay.” Temple breathed out dangerously to the surviving Blues and Reds.

Everyone took it as an order, which is what it was intended to be.

*****

As it turned out, the Reds and Blues that formerly lived in Blood Gulch were, surprisingly, both similar and dissimilar to the Blues and Reds of Desert Gulch. As plans progressed, Temple became rather obsessed with them. He resented how the group somehow managed to rise up against the unjust odds that had been stacked against them, how they had chosen to apparently turn their backs on the plights of their fellow Simulation Troopers to rub elbows with the elites, even going so far as to offer support and comradeship to many of the Freelancers who had viewed them as disposable pawns before.

The Blues and Reds often caught Temple staring at vid feeds of the Reds and Blues’ orange-armored soldier when they came across them, clearly angry that theirs was still alive and was not at all Biff.

But, it was the lanky one in maroon armor virtually identical to Gene’s own, who so often showed up side-by-side in the vids and images with the orange one that caught Gene’s attention the most. Gene always had to hold back a snort of disbelief at their maroon-armored soldier, because like fuck would he have ever deigned to stand that close to Biff voluntarily.

The soldier’s name was Simmons, Temple had told them disinterestedly in passing as he went over the names of all of their soon-to-be-targets.

“Eh,” Buckey glanced over at Gene with a grin and elbowed him in the shoulder rather hard, his smirk only widening when the brown-haired man rubbed the spot rather tenderly a second later before shooting him an annoyed glare, “He even kind of stands like you, dude.”

Gene narrowed his eyes and made a face, “Hardly.” He said as distastefully as possible, wanting Buckey’s poor attempt at a conversation over and done with since Temple had turned to glare at the two for their interruption. They had all learned the hard way not to make Temple angry.

But Gene’s eyes drifted over to the still image being displayed on the screen, and he couldn’t stop himself from pursing his lips and wondering what the man named Simmons looked like underneath his maroon helmet.

*****

The _“Murder Room,”_ as Cronut had so delicately decided to call it since there was no need to sugarcoat what it was built for after all, was the last part of the underwater base to be finished. Ironically, it was the first part to be actively used.

Temple was _very_ efficient when he put his mind to something, and Gene had learned early on to be impressed by efficiency. A part of him was rather glad that the hallway leading to the Murder Room was soundproof, and smell-proof too.

If Loco caught wind of just what was actually happening down there, he had a feeling that none of them would ever get a good night’s sleep again. Loco already had enough nightmares of Biff dying that Temple _only_ just tolerated because they weren’t supposed to speak about Biff anymore unless Temple allowed them to, and Loco still got upset at the raids and outpost attacks even after Surge and Cronut had somehow managed to convince his simple-minded self that they were all being done in self-defense.

The others more or less ignored that the Murder Room even existed. Lorenzo pointedly never went in its direction for anything, and every time a new Freelancer was uncovered, Buckey made a rather tasteless joke about how Temple would bring them _“you-know-where”_ and that was about it for his comments on the subject.

Surge had managed to convince himself that all of the Freelancers _“had it comin’”_ on account of what happened to Biff, though his finger always twitched on the trigger of his weapon as he wrestled with his own personal preference for a firing squad.

Cronut preferred the more in-your-face disposal methods that a cut throat or a bullet to the face provided. As it turned out, he had proven himself to be rather ruthless during missions. But, he always schooled his expression into a bright smile whenever he asked Temple just how long he thought one of their _“guests”_ might last this time.

Truth be told, Gene found himself rather morbidly fascinated by the whole process.

After all, technically speaking, armor-lock was a design function meant to help prolong the life of the armor-wearing person that initiated it. To use it to bring about someone’s demise, to slowly kill them while they were trapped within the unmoving confines of a suit normally worn to protect? Well, Temple certainly won points for creativity.

But, Gene also felt that he failed to see a bigger picture.

Sealing someone inside their own armor, leaving them to slowly rot and decay from the inside out? Sure, it was poetic, but Gene had always been more interested in what it would take to keep someone _alive_ for as long as possible.

Alive, but completely and utterly helpless. Reliant on someone else for even the most rudimentary tasks needed for survival. Wouldn’t _that_ be the most ideal form of revenge? Prolonging everything for just _that_ much longer.

But, he knew better than to voice his opinion out loud. Arguing with Temple was not a wise move by any means, and having him or the others looking at him askance because _“Holy fuck, Gene, that’s going a bit extreme don’t you think?”_ wouldn’t do him any favors.

The other Blues and Reds tended to avoid the Murder Room, contenting themselves with other preparations for the grand mission, especially after Temple would initially bring a guest down there.

Gene had gone down once, a few days into one of the Freelancer’s stays. He had stood in the open doorway, the smell of decay hitting him like a brick wall. He saw the way that the newest addition to the room was holding out a bottle of some kind of liquid in his now frozen grip, as if he’d been offering someone a friendly drink.

He bet that, when he had locked the guy in place, the man’s amicable gesture had amused Temple to no end.

The rather delirious agent started calling out incoherently once he heard the door open, begging for help and voicing the name of past acquaintances as if trying to guess who might have come to his supposed rescue.

Just as the guy weakly asked if his name wasn’t York, apparently wanting to know if York had gotten out to the beach finally too, Gene silently turned around and walked away. He never spoke about the incident once the door slammed shut behind him.

*****

Once it was time to bring the Reds and Blues into the fold, keeping up appearances was a bit trickier than expected. There were complications.

The orange soldier, Grif, was nowhere to be found. Temple initially seemed especially upset by that news, either because he had wanted to meet the guy to see just how similar he might actually be to Biff, or because he wanted to put a bullet through his visor for daring to still be alive and around while Biff was fucking gone. Gene really couldn’t say which was more likely. Temple was pretty unpredictable.

Temple adjusted though and made due. Maybe he figured if Grif was alive out there somewhere and learned that the others had either decided to join up eventually or had died, it would make things all the sweeter.

The journalist and her young cameraman definitely threw a wrench in the works with their unexpected appearance and constant attempts at snooping around. But Temple didn’t want to kill them yet, relishing the unexpected opportunity they provided for the entire universe to know just why things would go as he intended them to. Though, later on, Temple would change his mind and decide that they had outlived their usefulness too.

Loco and Surge actually went ahead and seemed to bond with their counterparts from Blood Gulch. Gene could understand Loco’s reasoning for doing so well enough since he barely had a grip on the plan at the best of times, but Surge genuinely wanting to bring Sarge into the fold instead of outright killing him was rather surprising given his tendency to lean towards the latter.

Buckey seemed to lose whatever interest he might have possibly had in palling around with Tucker once he decided to _“volunteer”_ to keep Dylan Andrews company. If you got what he meant, Buckey would always add with a suggestive eyebrow waggle for added emphasis. Gene didn’t exactly blame the reporter for attempting to escape Buckey’s scrutiny, though it certainly ended up putting Temple on edge enough to the point where he had to pull his overly horny teammate to the side and tell him to be _“fucking discreet and have some class for once.”_

Lorenzo and Lopez both seemed to understand each other, but also seemed far too content with being on their own at the fringes of their respective groups to truly attempt breaking the status quo.

On the surface, both Cronut and Donut seemed to have a connection that could very well break the foundation of the universe as everyone knew it. Gene found himself turning off his radio with a shudder whenever the two of them started up a dialogue over it.

It seemed as though they were hitting it off so well, in fact, that Gene actually pulled his teammate aside once. “Do you think you can still do it?” Gene asked Cronut in a hushed tone.

“Do what?” Cronut beamed over at him brightly, and it was hard not to remember when he had done that last time with blood still dripping down his face, “I’m always ready and raring to pound it into you if you need a pep boost!”

Okay, he would need to bleach his brain after this was all over.

“No! I mean,” Gene lowered his voice even further, “Do you think you can still kill Donut if you, you know, _have_ to?”

“Oh!” Cronut’s expression softened for a moment before a surprisingly stony look crossed over his face, “I’m ready to gut him like a fish if it comes to that. Any time.” He intoned rather seriously, a hand hovering over the knife he kept concealed in his armor ever since Biff had died.

Gene felt his shoulders sag in relief, “Whew, I thought for a moment there…”

“What about you, Gene?”

“Huh?” Gene blinked, momentarily taken aback by the question.

Cronut was regarding him carefully, “Will you be able to, you know…with Simmons, or…?”

“Um…” He fidgeted slightly, glancing over his shoulder to see if he could spot familiar maroon armor in the process.

Simmons had quickly proven himself to be an annoying complication too, especially for Gene. For starters, his mood seemed to fluctuate between downright sulky and sullen to intensely depressed at the drop of a hat.

Caboose, the moronic member of the Blue Team from Blood Gulch who was way too much like Loco without his infuriatingly questionable genius, had said it was because Simmons was missing his _“bestest friend ever”_ at the moment. Gene had thought it stupid, considering how he would never get so upset over that fucking trivial a thing.

To make matters worse, as curious and oddly eager as Gene was to finally have the chance to sit down and converse with someone who might very nearly _match_ his level to some degree, Simmons seemed to have despised him from the very moment they first met, going out of his way to pointedly try and avoid being anywhere alone with Gene.

It was infuriating. He hadn’t even had the fucking chance yet to see Simmons without his damn helmet on.

Gene often spotted the man in question conversing with the reporters, or discussing suspicions and unhappiness with Tucker and the other Reds and Blues. Gene was able to catch wind of a lot of it because they apparently sounded so similar _(not to his ears, but whatever)_ and their mannerisms were apparently enough alike that he was often mistaken for Simmons by the others from Blood Gulch.

If the other man kept up with avoiding him, then it was only a matter of time before word got out to Temple that Gene wasn’t keeping his counterpart on a tight enough leash. He laughed nervously to Cronut then, “Believe me, it shouldn’t be a fucking problem.”

*****

The first time that he saw Simmons outside of his armor, Gene was both immensely disappointed and rather intrigued. He had somehow convinced himself that it would be like looking into an unimpressive mirror, a dull reflection staring impassively back at him before he smashed it.

Instead, a way too pale face was glancing anywhere but at him _(that was annoying)_ with a myriad assortment of freckles dotting any piece of skin remotely visible. Simmons had an expressive green eye that was surprisingly clear, and red hair that was sharply vibrant. He seemed to catch onto Gene’s open regard, because he turned his face to glare at him before asking “What?” with an annoyed tone.

Doing so just revealed the cybernetics on the other side of Simmons’ face, the metal traveling further down his neck. His arm and another of his legs were metal too, an inorganic glowing red eye narrowing angrily when Gene pulled his regard back up to it.

“What the fuck happened to you?” Gene ended up getting out.

The flesh and blood portions of Simmons’ body that were visible suddenly turned a fascinating shade of red themselves, “None of your fucking business.”

He turned and walked away then in an annoyed huff, Gene’s eyes remaining glued on him well until after he disappeared and he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“Oh, the cybernetics?” Donut questioned Gene later on when he had approached him, Doc, and Cronut on the subject, “That was from the cyborg surgery that saved Grif’s life back in Blood Gulch.”

“Come again?” Gene asked, not sure how that explained anything. After all, how could someone else being turned into a cyborg do a damn thing to save another person?

Donut’s face had become rather crestfallen at the reminder of his absent teammate, so Doc stepped in to elaborate for Gene’s benefit, “Grif was run over by a tank and since no one thought to call me,” here a small note of irritability crossed his features but the pacifist was quick to sweep it under the rug, “Simmons volunteered to become a cyborg so that Sarge would use his leftover organs to save Grif’s life.” He shrugged, “It did the trick, even if it was a bit unorthodox if you ask me.”

…Actually, the opinion of a medic who thought serving orange juice to people bleeding out was one of the best approaches to medicine mattered very little to Gene.

“That is such a sweet thing to do for a teammate!” Cronut exclaimed, seemingly really moved by the tale and his eyes shone with theatrical tears as he regarded Gene, “Don’t you think so, Gene?”

“I…guess?”

But Gene couldn’t get over the illogical notion behind it.

Maybe Temple _(most likely, probably)_ would have sacrificed parts of one of their bodies if it meant he had a chance to save Biff’s life. Temple would have most likely done it without a second thought, without even waiting for them to agree to it. But, Gene? Gene couldn’t think of _any_ reason he would ever go to such lengths to save one of his asshole teammates.

His gaze landed on the redhead further away, and he clenched his fists at his sides. The whole thing fucking perplexed and frustrated him to no end.

*****

Simmons didn’t necessarily seem to mind the inherent claustrophobia being underneath the ocean caused, but Gene quickly picked up on him having a bizarre aversion to closets.

Despite Simmons’ grumbling over it, they had been assigned to get supplies together and Gene noticed the way the lanky cyborg stiffened uncomfortably in the doorway.

“Let’s get going.” Simmons grumbled quickly, already leaving.

Gene learned from Caboose about the incident with Grif and Simmons in the storage closet back on Chorus. He frowned, a disgusted feeling entering his gut at the implications that the childlike Blue was clearly not getting.

He remembered how tense and uneasy Simmons had gotten just standing there, half-heartedly holding a flashlight as he peered into the gloom. If Gene had pulled, dragged him into the dark along with him, what kind of reaction could he have gotten from Simmons then?

*****

“What the fuck did you say to Caboose?” Simmons demanded, his breath hot on Gene’s face as he stepped right up into his personal space bubble.

Normally, such an action would have pissed Gene the fuck off. To be truthful, it still did even as he felt an odd thrill of excitement and a growing sense of confusion over what was happening.

Gene narrowed his eyes and tried to pull himself up even taller so that he could be just as terrifying and intimidating as the clearly upset Simmons currently was making himself out to be, “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.” He managed to spit out in annoyance.

Simmons’ eyes, both human and cybernetic, narrowed, “You told him that Church wasn’t going to come back! What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Ah, so it was Simmons’ turn to be the overprotective parent this time. Temple was right: the Reds and Blues seriously babied the youngest Blue Team member way too much.

“I was simply telling him the facts.” Gene informed him pointedly, “It’s the only logical outcome for the situation, don’t you agree?”

Simmons deflated marginally, hesitancy and remorse plastered all over his face, “Y—yes, but…”

Gene thought of Biff, lying dead on the floor once they finally pulled the pole out of his chest. He reached over and grabbed Simmons’ shoulder, the gesture surprising them both. Gene was more than a little annoyed at Simmons’ sudden flinch at the unexpected contact.

“People who leave like that that don’t tend to come back, Simmons.”

A hurtful, sad look came over Simmons’ face.

Gene’s fingers tightened around Simmons’ shoulder, and he felt as if he would actually _have_ him then if he could just…

“Like how you know, deep down, that Grif isn’t going to be coming back.”

_That_ certainly got a reaction out of the other man, but not the one that Gene had been expecting. A flash of anger in Simmons’ green eye was his only warning before a metallic fist slammed right into his left eye socket and he was on the ground, clutching at the injury and whimpering in pain.

“Leave Caboose the fuck alone!” Simmons snarled above him, fist still held up threateningly for added emphasis, “And don’t you _ever_ say Grif’s name again, asshole!”

The redhead was gone a split-second later, looking as though he was inwardly debating coming back and pummeling Gene to death. Gene simply laid there, stunned. Anger and humiliation pulled at him even as a shaky smirk crossed over his mouth, excitement dancing on his tongue along with the telltale coppery taste of blood.

*****

When Temple added the two Freelancers named Carolina and Washington to his guest list, things became that much harder to conceal. Simmons was getting frustratingly more and more inquisitive. Gene and Cronut even found him in the hallway that connected to the corridor leading straight to the _“Murder Room.”_

“This part of the base wasn’t on that tour you guys gave us earlier.” Simmons frowned, looking past the two of them as they attempted to block his way, “Where does it lead again?”

“Um, nowhere too interesting!” Cronut was quick when it came to thinking on his feet, though Gene saw his hand cautiously hovering close to his side, “You know, just more storage for Loco’s toys. And Buckey’s too, not that I’d recommend touching those since he never cleans them.”

“Uh-huh.”

Simmons wasn’t buying it, and he was about to get a knife in the gut for his investigative efforts. That would, decidedly, make Gene’s efforts and ideas go to waste in a hurry and he hated planning things only to see them fall through.

He had a suspicion that Simmons might be the same in that regard, at least.

“Say, Cronut,” Gene spoke up rather sharply then, “Didn’t you have some wine left from that killer Wine and Cheese Hour you and Donut had before?”

Both Simmons and Cronut turned to glance at him, looking rather confused and curious by the sudden topic change. Gene’s smile grew wider and he hoped that he could pull this off. Simmons writhing on the ground before him in agony in a pool of blood wouldn’t be nearly as entertaining as what he would rather see him writhing before him for. At least, not at first.

“I just realized that you’re the only one who hasn’t gone through our customary Getting to Know You drinking contest.” Gene continued, his voice’s octave only rising slightly, “Temple would be really upset if we didn’t keep that tradition alive, you know?”

Simmons’ frown only deepened suspiciously, “No one said anything about that.”

“Because it’s done privately, you silly goose!” Cronut jumped right on board then, grabbing Simmons’ arm and pulling him away down the hall rather forcibly with his best grin of disarming sunshine, “Everybody knows that.”

“B—but…!”

“Oh, don’t be such a party pooper!” Cronut threw a very pointed look over his shoulder Gene’s way for just a moment, “I stashed a bottle or two this way. Come on!”

Gene nodded at his teammate before going off to see Doc. Or, rather, Doc’s cache of medical supplies he never seemed to want to actually prescribe to anyone.

Temple had said to keep the Reds and Blues occupied, no matter what. Even if that meant getting rather creative. Even if it meant ground up sleeping pills in the bottom of one of Cronut’s wine bottles that he had been saving for a _“special occasion”_ when their guest wasn’t looking.

Making the whole thing out to be a game had done the trick nicely. Gene found himself dragging a very out of it Simmons into his room about an hour later, after Cronut had put his foot down on helping any further and staunchly insisted that the whole thing was Gene’s issue to deal with now.

Gene hefted the maroon-wearing man onto the mattress, running a hand over the still flesh-and-blood side of his face in the process. Before he could question just what the fuck he was doing, he bent over Simmons and pressed his lips to his.

The drugged unresponsiveness he got in return was not wholly unexpected given the situation, but still somehow disappointing all the same. He had wanted _some_ kind of reaction, damn it!

Although Gene felt something akin to anticipation when he felt Simmons stir beneath him a few seconds later. His lips moved against his own suddenly, and Gene’s hands went up to press against that red, red hair.

“S—sorry.” Simmons slurred sleepily against Gene’s mouth, a trail of _wetness_ running down his freckled cheek, “ _Grif_ , I…”

Gene froze above the cyborg, really seeing red for the first time in his entire life. He left the room in a huff, getting Buckey of all people to help drag Simmons back to the Reds and Blues’ temporary quarters where they unceremoniously dumped him on a couch before anyone saw.

Gene’s face was burning in outright humiliation, and he didn’t even shout at Buckey when he made a lewd joke afterwards at his expense.

*****

One of the last times that he saw Simmons before the trip to Earth was in the prison area where Tucker and the others had been incarcerated following their escape attempt. Gene had come down with Sarge in the old man’s futile attempt to convince his teammates to join up with Temple’s group.

The result of that exchange had been roughly what Gene expected it to be, and as Sarge left in a wave of disappointment and regret, Gene paused in front of Simmons’ cell. The cyborg was glaring at him beneath his visor, he was certain of that. Simmons probably wanted to reach through the bars and punch him again for added measure. The thought left Gene smiling.

“You really should reconsider, you know,” Gene told the other maroon-wearing man rather smugly, “They’ve hurt everyone here, after all.”

“Yeah, keep telling yourselves that, you asshole!” Tucker shouted back from across the space, “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Gene’s eyes remained fixed on Simmons, who was _far_ from a perfect replica now that Gene had personally met him, but was still probably the closest thing to one that Gene would ever get in this fucked up universe.

“My message still got out.” Simmons jutted his chin defiantly, “He’s going to come.”

Gene knew who he meant, and it pissed him off to know end. To see Simmons _settle_ like Biff and Temple before him. The fact that Simmons trusted someone like that was so fucking…

“Believe whatever the fuck you want.” Gene murmured under his breath before walking off.

Later, when Grif _did_ show up and attempted a piss poor rescue mission, Gene’s frustration only grew even if he was thrilled to see how poorly placed Simmons’ trust had been all the same.

It was especially irksome when Temple, wanting to just get everything over and done with by that point, had put Grif and Simmons side-by-side in the cells. The two were practically off in their own little world already by the time the Blues and Reds had left.

*****

Gene had wanted to _kill_ Simmons when he showed up on Earth. That had been the plan, at any rate. His resentment at what he felt was an unfair rejection had turned to rage and Simmons…well, both Simmons _and_ Grif, were to fucking blame.

He would kill Simmons just because he could. He’d do it in front of Grif and have him watch to make it even worse. He would do it all while disguised _as_ Simmons, just to further show how incredibly stupid Simmons had been to think that any of his so-called friends would even be able to tell the difference.

If he could get Grif to take the shot, it would have been all the more sweet…

Gene hadn’t expected the knife that Simmons drew to counter him, and he sure as fuck hadn’t expected a moron like Grif to have thrown such an inane philosophical bullshit question their way. He had given a perfectly logical answer, the only one that made any fucking _sense_ and was thrown over a ledge for it.

Gene didn’t know how long he had precariously dangled over impossibly hot lava once the pair had left. At some point, right before his arms had nearly given out, he was pulled up and _“rescued.”_ Naturally, he killed the UNSC goon who had saved him. After that, it was easy enough to blend into the crowd with the right armor on. He was a master of stealth when he needed to be.

But that didn’t really help Temple, Cronut, or Buckey…now in UNSC custody. It wasn’t going to help the recently deceased Surge or Loco either. So Gene _seethed_ and resigned to escaping without them, while the fucking heroes celebrated yet another undeserved win.

*****

The last piece of the recording gear fell into place underneath his hand with a soft click and whirring sound to let him know that everything was in working order. Gene stood back up to look down admiringly at his handiwork. The one-way mirror showed into the dark, closet-like space before him wonderfully and he smiled at how perfectly _fitting_ it all was.

Cleaning up this part of the colony had been a drag, what with the rotting bodies and all, but the added ambiance he knew existed right outside the doors of this safehouse certainly helped do the trick. He remained standing there for a few seconds more, staring at his tinted reflection in the glass before him while clenching his hands tightly into fists at his sides.

It had taken him a bit longer than he had planned to set this whole thing up, but now? Now, he just needed to retrieve his special guest of honor. Gene was going to make sure that they would be staying with him for a long, _long_ time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So um, this is a thing that I wrote. It is a thing that is much darker than what I normally write, and so I figured I would post this first part now before I lost my nerve. XD
> 
> I wanted to experiment with writing from the POV of an antagonist in this part of the story, and since I haven’t really written any of the Desert Gulch characters yet myself I went with one of them. I apologize if they come across as TOO dark/creepy/dangerous somehow, but I always got the impression of most of the Blues and Reds being deceptively similar to their Blood Gulch counterparts while secretly being more dangerous and deadlier than they tend to let on given how many missions they’ve gone on. So, that is kind of where my interpretation of Gene and the others comes from here.
> 
> As for Gene’s infatuation with Simmons here, well, up until the one epic fight scene in Season 15, Gene never showed much animosity towards Simmons at all comparatively and it made me sort of wonder: what if Simmons didn’t like Gene because he inherently doesn’t tend to like himself due to his self-esteem issues, but Gene doesn’t necessarily have those views himself since they are different characters? That’s also why Simmons and Grif complement one another so wonderfully: they are different but similar and balance the other which is why they tend to become wrecks when not together. Gene also never showed a bond as strong with anyone as Simmons has with Grif, so I could see that being a point of contention and confusion for Gene too when it comes to this person who is supposedly so like him. Me blowing things way out of my butt, but there you have it. XD
> 
> This story will go on for at least two more chapters most likely if I can gather up the courage to write them out, though most of those will probably be told from the POV of a certain _other_ maroon-wearing character and others besides simply being Gene’s take on things. But, this was a fun-ish chapter to explore and write out: definitely more different and experimental than what I’m used to writing, that’s for sure! XD
> 
> I’m not involved in the Angst War beyond commenting on all of the awesome works people are posting for it since I don’t have a Tumblr myself, but I’m totally blaming all of you way more talented and wonderful writers out there for getting my emotions all worked up and getting this idea to not immediately fly out of my head like it probably should have! :D
> 
> Thanks for reading, regardless, and I hope it wasn’t too horrible! XD


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Pairings Beyond Grimmons:**  
>  ~Potential Biff x Temple  
> ~Extremely one-sided/unhealthy Gene x Simmons  
> ~Potential Sarcus  
> ~Jensen x Palomo, because something cute and fluffy needed to happen darn it! XD
> 
> **Other Notes for This Story:**  
>  ~Gene is even _more_ of a creeper in this chapter, which is all sorts of scary and unsettling.  
>  ~Nonconsensual drug use, nonconsensual touching, nonconsensual embracing, nonconsensual kissing.  
> ~Forced stripping, shaving, feeding, showering, and drinking. Keeping someone restrained against their will and taping them against their will.  
> ~Prolonged captivity. Emotional, mental, and physical torture. Breaking of an arm and a throat jab.  
> ~…Seriously, how did I come up with this again? 0_0;  
> ~Spoilers for Season 15.
> 
> Legal Disclaimer: I do not own _Red vs. Blue_ or any of the show’s characters. They are the rightful properties of Rooster Teeth.

“I think I might actually punch someone.” Carolina managed to spit out through her tightly clenched jaw, the former Freelancer’s stance downright threatening.

So much so in fact that most in her vicinity were quick to give her a wide berth. Richard “Dick” Simmons let out a perfectly understandable gulp. He _was_ currently standing next to Carolina, fighting the sudden survival instinct to back away slowly while maintaining eye contact. He very nearly dropped the plate of snacks he had been collecting, and the maroon-wearing man almost swore that he could hear Grif’s wail of anguish at the very notion despite how his teammate wasn’t even on Chorus at the moment.

“Um,” Simmons glanced from the other redhead’s glowering face over to the trickle of wedding shower guests surrounding Katie Jensen in a giggling gaggle, “Was it something someone said, or…?”

Carolina’s pointed look of frustration softened marginally at his concern, and she tapped her shoes on the ground for added emphasis as she stated, “It’s these goddamned _heels_!” She grimaced, letting out a sigh, “Why I let Donut talk me into wearing them is beyond me.”

Simmons opted not to remind Carolina that, while she had been recuperating in the hospital following all of the events with Temple’s group, she had promised to have a _“makeover day”_ with a worried Donut whenever a special occasion came up. The pink-armored soldier had obviously considered Carolina to be sufficiently recovered.

She had not, most likely, thought that Donut would remember said promise. A bit of an oversight on her part since the dirty blond _always_ took such matters seriously. Nor had she probably expected a special occasion to crop up so soon afterwards.

…The ecstatic shriek of unbridled glee that Donut had let out after the invitations to Jensen and Palomo’s showers and wedding arrived on the retirement moon had caused even Lopez to jump in alarm while swearing in electronic Spanish.

Simmons was fairly certain that the former cyan-armored Freelancer had been tempted to try and sneak out of a window when the youngest Red Team member said they would be _“shopping ‘til they dropped”_ when they went back to Chorus to attend the events. Simmons would have felt more sympathy for Carolina then if he hadn’t been trying to make his overly flushed self somehow disappear from sight.

He was still embarrassed by just the memory of Grif laughing loudly at Simmons for being invited to the bridal shower, though the chubby man quickly shut up when Washington had taken pity on the cyborg and pointed out how Jensen had clearly stated that Captain Grif could _also_ attend with Simmons. Grif had become strangely pensive for the rest of the day following that, not even joining in with Sarge and Washington’s bemusement over Tucker’s disbelief that his hapless former lieutenant was apparently more successful with the ladies than he was.

“They look nice though?” Simmons tried rather pitiably.

Carolina shot him a dubious look, and Simmons was momentarily fearful she would force him to wear the offending footwear for a while just to see how they felt before she shifted on her feet once more, “I asked Kimball to bring me a pair of cheap sneakers when she gets here after her meeting.” The woman muttered conspiratorially.

“I don’t think they’ll go well with your dress.”

Carolina smirked at his lame response, raising an eyebrow, “Who’s going to tattle on me, Simmons?”

…Definitely not him, nope! Simmons smiled nervously as he looked away. Even if he hadn’t been terrified of the bodily harm that Carolina was more than capable of dishing out, the resulting horrified blubbering from Donut over clashing fashion styles not making any sort of statements would so not be worth it.

Carolina frowned contemplatively as she gazed over towards a beaming Jensen, caught in a group hug with the other ecstatic former members of Maroon Team. Simmons was _not_ going to cry again at seeing them all so cheerful, happy, and fulfilled—it had been bad enough when Jensen had discreetly handed him a pack of tissues and patted his shoulder when they all rushed over to tell him what was new on Chorus after he had congratulated the young bride-to-be. Carolina’s green-eyed gaze landed on the white and cobalt-wearing young man who was trying to give the group directions for capturing the best angles in order to make the most memories.

“Of course, I’d have to take care of the film evidence.” Carolina mulled out loud, index finger dabbing at her chin as she quite seriously pondered this issue, “Do you think Jax will let go of his artistic integrity without a fight?”

“Hard to say, honestly.” Simmons answered truthfully, before trying to find a solution that would avoid having to threaten a rather clueless kid, “But maybe Dylan could convince him to edit the shoes out?”

Dylan Andrews was currently talking to Doctor Grey about some medical conference she had covered once involving nanotechnology or something. It was apparently as close to pleasant small talk as the two ladies were likely to get. And his spot far away from them was as close as he was going to get to them having said conversation.

Carolina regarded the journalist carefully before shrugging, “It’s worth a shot.” She agreed, and Simmons lowered his face to hide his smile because it _was_ rather touching to see her going out of her way to be considerate of Donut’s feelings even if the light-ish red soldier was so willing to sacrifice comfort for fashion.

“Man, Jensen and the others are nice and all, but this shindig is _so_ boring!” Kaikaina Grif’s booming voice announced her presence just before she threw her arms over the two’s shoulders. She didn’t seem to care about Simmons’ startled cry or the fact that Carolina was most certainly internally debating whether or not she was more amused or annoyed by the younger woman’s antics, “Where the fuck are all the strippers?”

Simmons’ face became red as he squawked out, “This…this is a public park, Kai!”

The younger Grif sibling shot him a pitying look, “And that’s why they have to get all those licenses and permits, nerd guy.”

“Th—that’s…!”

Carolina rolled her eyes, sliding out from underneath Kai’s arm, “This is a bridal shower, not a bachelorette party.”

The tan-skinned woman shrugged indifferently, “Seems like a waste of time and effort to do them separately if you ask me.” Kai stated, giving Simmons a slight shake, “Hey, when you have yours make sure you do it right, yeah?”

His brain broke, “Um…what?” Simmons stuttered out loud, clearly confused.

But Kai carried on as if she hadn’t heard him, “The two of you could even use the same company or something. I bet they do all sorts of group deals.”

Carolina looked beyond amused as Simmons continued gaping, _“What?!?”_ He managed to screech out.

“’Course, that would just be you and big bro being considerate hosts.” Kai continued, “Because I bet you guys would have a whole strip routine for yourselves planned for the night after.”

Simmons was going to fucking _faint_. He could feel the plate of snacks he was currently holding tipped precariously to the floor.

Kai removed her arm from around his shoulder to point at the snacks, “You’re not going to eat those?”

He wordlessly handed her the plate and she grinned, popping one of the treats into her mouth, “Sweet! Dex is going to be sorry he missed this!”

…Not that Grif had seemed all that eager to be Simmons’ _“plus one”_ when they had gotten the invite, Simmons thought rather disappointedly. Granted, the orange-armored soldier _had_ been invited to Palomo’s very obvious bachelor party along with Tucker and the other guys since Jensen had apparently claimed Simmons for her shower on the principal of Maroon Team solidarity, which would have probably been more Grif’s style. So, he couldn’t exactly fault the tan-skinned man for opting out of the bridal shower. It would have just been weird if they had come together, wouldn’t it?

After all, they hadn’t even talked about certain things that Simmons felt maybe it was time to discuss even as he wanted to go somewhere and puke up his guts at the thought. Plus, before Grif had even said anything about which event he planned on going to, Caboose had asked for his help on a _“super important fun mission”_ and that pretty much made the whole matter moot.

Grif and Simmons always seemed adept at putting things off, even when they didn’t really want to. It was bizarre.

“Hey, um, I think I might need some air.” Simmons stated anxiously, rubbing the back of his neck where metal and flesh collided.

“What the fuck do you mean?” Kai shot him an incredulous look over a popover, “We’re in a park!”

Carolina gave him a more understanding and rather patient look as she put a hand on Kai’s shoulder, “Take as much time as you need, Simmons.”

Dawning realization suddenly overtook Kai’s features then, “Oh! I get it.” She smirked at him conspiratorially, “You really should make yourself go _before_ attending long-ass parties, dork.”

…For totally incorrect reasoning, but Simmons nodded in embarrassed relief all the same before darting off after shooting another encouraging grin Jensen’s way. He wouldn’t take too long.

“Hey, which hotties here do you think I have the best odds with?” He overheard Kai asking Carolina before he was out of earshot.

*****

Simmons wasn’t sure who had chosen to put a mirrored wall display smack dab in the middle of the park. He frowned slightly as he stood before it, awkwardly pulling at the bowtie around his neck as he did so.

He had never been too fond of seeing his reflection staring back at him, even if he had stopped punching mirrors in the middle of the night. The redhead hadn’t been able to do so since that last night in Blood Gulch when Grif had caught him. The not liking his reflection sentiment was especially true today when he was so wholly uncomfortable in not only his out-of-the-norm clothes, but also in his own skin and metal.

The distant sounds of the bridal shower that was now hidden from view still reached his ears, and Simmons smiled softly as he averted his gaze to the ground. He could get through this for Jensen’s sake, he reminded himself. The cyborg would have to be sure to save some food for Grif too, so that he would at least have something to munch on while he tried to feign interest in how the event had gone.

_“You’re seriously wearing that?”_

_Simmons’ flesh-and-blood body parts turned pink at the question that had been casually thrown his way from the door of his temporary sleeping quarters here on Chorus. He turned his unsure gaze away from his image in the mirror that Donut had insisted he borrow for the occasion, glaring at a rather scrutinizing-looking Dexter Grif, though the expression on his own face quickly became uncertain._

_“Why?” Simmons asked hesitatingly as he looked down at the tuxedo that Donut had shoved into his surprised arms hours ago so that he would look nice for one of his lieutenants’ big days, “What’s…what’s wrong with it?”_

_Grif shrugged indifferently, “Nothing, really, except that you look even more like an awkward nerd than usual.”_

_Simmons opened his mouth to retort before he turned back to the mirror, his shoulders slumping at the sight, “Shit. I do, don’t I?”_

_The heavyset man in orange stepped casually into the room as if he owned the space, stopping just a few meters behind Simmons. When had it last been since either of them actually bothered to ask to be invited inside the other’s room? Sometimes, with how often it happened, the redhead was almost tempted to ask if they should just give Donut that extra arts and crafts space he always wanted and room together. But, he was terrified of Grif rejecting the idea._

_Grif was regarding him in the mirror carefully, brown and green eyes taking in all of Simmons’ lanky, unappealing form. Simmons had to really work at covering up his reaction to their close proximity, the blush on his face nearly impossible to conceal at the faint tickling of warm breath on the back of his neck._

_He tried not to think of the casual closeness they always seemed to fall into that they never talked about. Of a night of even_ more _closeness in a storage closet where everything he had ever dared to dream about occurred and things had been beyond incredible until reality and all of its inevitable hang-ups and complications had to reassert themselves. They_ definitely _did not talk about that night at all._

_There were so many things they never talked about, now that he thought about it, even as they talked about absolutely everything and nothing constantly. They never mentioned the things that Simmons wanted to say, even though he always ended up freezing at the crucial moment._

_The cyborg’s reflection stared silently back even now, and his hands clenched into fists at his sides as he thought about how truly pathetic he was._

_“I didn’t say it was a bad thing.” Grif murmured contemplatively just then, a smirk settling upon his features, “I mean, that’s what you are so you might as well show it off proudly, you know?”_

_Simmons frowned, not at all liking the teasing tone in his teammate’s voice then. He quickly turned around to face him, “That’s—!”_

_But he stilled at the heavy, assessing look in Grif’s eyes despite his earlier words, his mechanical heart-gear skipping a beat. It once more reminded him of the Temple of Procreation business, of the way that Grif had stared back at Simmons’ equally hungry expression then, his hand burning on Simmons’ overly heated neck as his fingers tightened and their mouths crashed together…_

_The look was gone from Grif’s face before he could really properly dwell on it, and Simmons figured that it must have just been his imagination. There was no fucking way someone would look at him like that when he was dressed so absurdly. No way they’d look at him like that when he was dressed normally either._

_“I…” Simmons floundered, trying to think of something to say so that it wouldn’t get weird, “I really wish the dress code wasn’t so fucking formal.”_

_Grif hummed, “I can still hear Washington trying to convince Tucker that just because Palomo’s party is more casual, his going in sweats is going to be a bad idea.”_

_The still recovering former Freelancer was finding out how much of a losing battle that was fairly fast, especially at Tucker’s insistence that they were his_ “good” _sweats._

_Simmons laughed nervously at the reminder, “I guess it’s practice for the wedding, huh?”_

_Grif shrugged, oddly silent. He always got that way around the wedding talk though. Honestly, Simmons was surprised that he was even here at all._

_“I’m touched that Jensen invited me, but it is going to be really awkward being the only guy there.” Simmons rambled, trying not to think about how it would be like high school sports all over again._

_“That Jax kid will be there too tough, right?” Grif asked disinterestedly._

_“Only as the cameraman.” Simmons stated, shrugging, “And we don’t exactly converse a ton, so…”_

_He trailed off before he did something horribly embarrassing and awkward like admitting that he wished that Grif was going with him, that the other man would have wanted to do so._

_The redhead cleared his throat instead, averting his gaze, “But Jensen was considerate enough to invite me, so I just have to deal, right?”_

_A nod, “Would be pretty dick-ish if you didn’t.” The chubby man mumbled apathetically._

_A thought crossed Simmons’ mind and he frowned in concern, “I’m happy for the two of them, definitely, but do you think they might be rushing things, Grif?”_

_The heavyset soldier looked genuinely amused at the suggestion, “Playing the overprotective parent, Simmons?” He joked, “Have you sat Palomo down yet to have the stern dad talk?”_

_“He’s been avoiding me and you know it, fat-ass.” He shot back quickly as his face heated up, not that it mattered much because Donut said that he’d be glad to do it in Simmons’ stead at the bachelor party and Simmons almost felt bad for the guy now, “I just…I just want them to stay happy.”_

_After everything that Jensen and Palomo had been through, everything that had transpired on Chorus, it wasn’t such a selfish request, was it? Grif stared at him indescribably for a moment before he startled Simmons by reaching out and fiddling with the maroon bowtie that the cyborg had been struggling with._

_“Think about it this way, Simmons,” Grif told him softly as his fingers moved much more nimbly than their larger size might make one think they were capable of, “Even with all of the awful shit they’ve been through, they somehow survived and pulled through it together. Some people aren’t that lucky when it comes to that department. They could be staring at the one person they’ve wanted to be with for fucking_ years _and still fall short of taking the plunge.”_

_Simmons’ breath caught in his throat as he wondered from what personal experience Grif seemed to be drawing that logic from. Hearing it from him of all people hit far too close to home in a way._

_Grif’s hands dropped from the now straightened bowtie as he flashed a self-deprecating smile Simmons’ way, “Those kids are braver than me, that’s for sure.” He assured him, “They’ll be fine.”_

_Simmons hadn’t realized he had been holding his breath until then, and he let it out with a shaky smile, “Y—yeah!”_

_Grif awkwardly patted his shoulder, “Guess I should get going on this magical friendship journey or whatever it is that Caboose keeps calling it.”_

_Simmons nodded his head in agreement, “We’ve already promised him that Jensen and Palomo will get his cards.” He stated, tilting his head in thought, “And for some reason, Sarge wants Lopez to deliver a bag of shotgun shells and fireworks to them.”_

_“Yeah, that’s supposed to be for the honeymoon or something.” At the incredulous look on Simmons’ face, Grif elaborated with a shudder, “Believe me, you don’t want to know. I regret having asked.”_

_“I’ll tell Jensen that you’ll see them before the wedding.” Simmons assured him, “And I’ll smuggle back some food too.”_

_“Sweet.” Grif grinned._

_The mention of food jarred Simmons’ memory, “You got those lunches I made for you?”_

_An oddly grateful look crossed over Grif’s face, “Having two of them is a plus.”_

_“One of them is for Caboose, fat-ass!” Simmons informed him testily, knowing full well that Sarge would only stubbornly eat MREs while on the “mission.”_

_Grif’s eyebrow rose in curiosity and amusement at the declaration, “When did you become his mom, exactly?”_

_Simmons flushed at the teasing remark, definitely not wanting to mention right then, and to Grif of all people, that he had started to look after the Blue when Caboose had noticed how much he had been missing Grif before. Nope, that was a conversation best saved for never._

_“I’m still surprised Sarge wants to help you two find Locus.” Simmons tried changing the subject instead._

_Grif shrugged, “Eh, I bet he’s just worried that Caboose’s heartfelt thank you hug will make Locus want to join Blue Team or something.”_

_“You still think he’ll actually want to sign up for Red Team?” Simmons asked hesitatingly._

_“I don’t know. Maybe?” Grif furrowed his brows at the question, “He did seem okay with me and Lopez when we went to rescue you guys.”_

_Simmons blinked and nodded, “Yeah…”_

_Grif had even proudly called Locus his partner and everything. Simmons had just been so relieved to see him again he hadn’t really thought about that and the little pang of jealousy it evoked._

_…Maybe, maybe Grif was starting to want to be around others more in general? It was great if that was the case, and no one was talking about replacing anyone on the team or anything like that, but…_

_“It might be good if he did. For you guys, at least. And Sarge.” Simmons finally stated._

_“Hey, don’t forget yourself, bu—friend.” Grif was quick to chime in, “I bet Locus is a secret nerd given his cool ship, so you two could bond over that or some shit.”_

_“Maybe.” Simmons doubted it though. Honestly? He was surprised that Grif and the others even tolerated him as much as they did._

_“And Donut.” Grif shrugged, “Donut will probably want to paint his nails or do his hair.” Grif laughed at the mental image that he had just provided himself with, and Simmons couldn’t help but smile in return. He had missed his fucking laugh._

_Grif gave a wave then and turned to leave, but he paused in the doorway as Simmons turned his attention back to his awkward-as-all-fuck reflection in the mirror. The expression that he saw on the tanned-skin man’s face as he regarded the redhead was a surprisingly serious one._

_“Hey, Simmons?” Grif took another step back into the room, drawing in a shaky breath as he did so._

_Simmons turned towards him questioningly._

_“When we…” Grif paused, swallowing conspicuously as his shoulders rose up, “When we get back, there’s something I want…_ need _to tell you.” He looked the maroon-wearing man square in the eyes, “That okay?”_

_Simmons blinked in confusion, unsure of what was going on or why he felt a sharp pull in his chest then, “S—sure.”_

_Grif looked both relieved and grateful at his response, smiling softly before quickly heading out the door and leaving a thoroughly puzzled Simmons in his wake._

Simmons frowned slightly at the sudden memory, wondering just what Grif had meant for what was no doubt the billionth time.

Maybe, maybe Grif finally had enough of Simmons being his shitty self and wanted to put an end to… _whatever_ was going on between them? He had been acting odd around Simmons ever since they had come back from Earth, and it wasn’t like Simmons hadn’t been doing the same even if they were arguably closer now in some ways.

The idea caused a huge spike of panic in him, and he closed his eyes as he quickly shook his head to try to dislodge those troubling thoughts. As he did so, he heard footsteps alarmingly close by coming from behind him, his face heating up at the notion that Carolina, Kai, or one of the other bridal shower guests had seen him inwardly freaking out. An apology was already on his lips as he opened his eyes, intending to turn around and face whoever it was.

In the mirror, Simmons caught a glimpse of the extremely familiar color of maroon behind him, right before there was a sharp burst of pain at the back of his skull and the world went black.

*****

Simmons woke up to the oddly familiar feel of gauntleted fingers running gently through his hair, the motion surprisingly soothing in comparison to the killer headache he was currently experiencing.

The few times that Simmons had fallen asleep before Grif had been rare, but it had happened on occasion on Chorus in particular, back when he’d just been too exhausted after not getting enough sleep due to anxiety and nerves.

Sometimes it happened even while he was still in full armor during the rare breaks they were given. He would wake up later to find that his head had been moved onto Grif’s lap, the orange-armored man having removed his helmet. The chubby soldier would be running his hands through Simmons’ hair as he dozed, the gentle rhythm helping to calm Simmons down enough to actually fucking sleep for once.

The expression on Grif’s face had always been so soft and content right up until he noticed that Simmons was awake and he quickly averted his gaze and muttered about how Simmons was trying to take his job as the resident lazy-ass. It had always just fallen into another of those things that they chose not to talk about.

Simmons shifted on the mattress underneath him, turning slightly into the motion, “J—just a few more seconds. Okay, Grif?” He muttered softly, figuring that Grif of all people wouldn’t begrudge that particular request.

The hand suddenly stilled completely on the top of his head and, just as Simmons’ still foggy brain began telling him that something about this situation wasn’t right, a fistful of his hair was gripped and yanked painfully tight.

“The two of you must not have wasted any time.” A mocking voice sneered above him as Simmons cried out with the stinging ache in his scalp, suddenly very much awake.

A maroon helmet with a blue visor was peering down at him, and Simmons jerked upwards when the person’s hand released its hold on his head, scalp still throbbing.

_“Gene?”_ Simmons managed to get out in bewilderment as he kicked his legs up, misjudging the proportions of the bed he had been resting on and tumbling headfirst onto the floor, shoes up and over his head as a result.

The whole thing did nothing to improve his headache, and tears formed in his still human eye as he gritted his teeth against it.

“Very smooth, Simmons.” Gene mocked yet again as he stood up from the chair he had been sitting on.

Simmons wanted to tell him to shut the fuck up, to demand to know why he was here and where the others were, when an overwhelmingly gut-churning stench suddenly entered his lungs. He gagged before he even knew why, managing to turn himself over on the ground in just enough time to avoid choking on his own vomit.

All the while, Gene stood over him until his retching finally abated, peering calmly over the room they were in, “Well, the smell _does_ take some getting used to. I can give you that.” He told him cheerfully as Simmons slowly lifted up his head, “I always make sure to wear my helmet when I go out for a walk.”

Simmons still hated Gene’s stupid voice. He tried breathing in as little as possible as he shakily looked around.

It appeared they were not on Chorus anymore, as the building didn’t resemble any of the structures Simmons had grown familiar with there. It looked an awful lot like the inside of a pre-fabricated home one might find on a just starting up colony world. The cyborg had been lying on top of a bed, and close by was the table that Gene had pulled his chair out from.

A corpse seated precariously on the other chair still by the table, and the decay of what little remained of the putrid flesh still covering parts of it indicated that it had been there for a while. From his vantage spot low to the ground, Simmons was staring into the gaping eyeholes of another body lying on the floor right next to the feet of the other one.

He wanted to vomit again. His eye teared up as the bile hit what was already decorating the floor.

Gene stepped over to the bodies as Simmons got up on wobbly feet, experimentally kicking at the shoulder of the body on the floor. Simmons grimaced at the soft, squelching sound the impact made.

“Admittedly, this colony _was_ seeing better days when Temple first had us pay them a visit.” Gene stated almost conversationally, his gaze turning from the two corpses over to Simmons, “But I guess some colonies are just doomed to fail, huh?”

There was something snide and knowing about his remark then, but Simmons’ mind wasn’t ready to latch onto it given how beyond fucked up this was.

“It did take me some time to restore the parts that we took from the air generation system and regulator, but I got it running again eventually.” Gene carried on, obviously in love with the sound of his annoying voice.

Gene was, for some inexplicable reason, not in UNSC custody like he was supposed to be. Instead, they were standing in one of the colonies that Locus had told them the Blues and Reds had pilfered from and then left to die. Simmons would have thrown up again, if he could.

The redhead wiped his mouth instead, the awful taste there intermingling with the smell as he glared, “What the fuck do you want?”

He could hear the patronizing smile in Gene’s voice as he stepped away from the table and towards him, “Relax, Simmons.” He stated in a falsely soothing tone, “I have a place that’s _much_ more hygienic, but I assumed you would want to get to know some of the neighbors first.”

Simmons took a step back, his knees hitting the bed, “This is fucked up.”

“Probably.” The asshole replied, actually agreeing with him, “But who is going to think about looking for someone in a dead zone?”

The cyborg looked around the house quickly, trying to get his bearings. Past the small kitchen area, there was a door. Maybe, if he could reach it, there was a chance that Gene hadn’t locked it…

“Don’t be stupid, Simmons.” Gene practically cooed as he caught Simmons’ eyes scanning over the area, “Even if you _did_ get out of this house, where do you think you could go? There’s no one else here, and like fuck would I have just left a ship lying out in the open.”

He frowned, knowing that was probably true. Besides, Gene was in his fucking power armor and probably had weapons stashed away too. The brown-haired man let out a long-suffering sigh as he watched Simmons trying to internally mull over his limited options.

He reached into a storage compartment of his armor, fishing out a bottle of some kind of clear liquid that Simmons could pretty much guarantee wasn’t water. Simmons tried not thinking of how Grif had stashed beer in his, grinning as he offered his sputtering and protesting teammate a drink during watch duty.

“Here’s what is going to happen next, either easily or messily.” Gene informed Simmons matter-of-factly as he held out the unknown substance, “You’re going to drink this because you look as if you really need the edge off right about now.”

Simmons glared at him in response, hands clenched at his sides, “No fucking way.”

He shrugged as if Simmons’ refusal was perfectly okay, “Suit yourself.” Gene paused then, a wondering note entering his voice as he turned to look at the redhead pointedly again, “What do you think a wedding ceremony looks like after it’s been blown to bits?”

Simmons didn’t even think it was possible for his blood to run colder than it had been on that fucking cliffside on Sidewinder, or on Hargrove’s ship, or when Grif had faced down Temple, or even when he had just woken up here…but he was freezing to his very core as the insinuation behind Gene’s words sunk in, “You wouldn’t.”

Gene sounded bemused at the notion, “I think the two of us standing here kind of proves I would.”

He felt the panic rising in his chest, bubbling up into his words, “B—but…!”

“Think about it, Simmons. All of your dumbass friends and stupid teammates, those young soldiers you helped to train?” Gene waved the bottle in front of him again, “Your choice.”

And because images of Jensen, of Palomo, of the rest of Maroon Team and the other lieutenants, of Blue Team, of dumb Jax and determined Dylan, of driven Kimball— _all_ of them flashed through his head then, he reached out and grabbed the liquid from Gene’s grasp. He downed the whole thing in one long, bitter-tasting swallow while Gene watched to make sure he was actually doing so, and then he sat down on the edge of the bed to wait for whatever effects were about to take place and glared up at the other Sim Trooper.

“I figured you would make the right choice. Eventually.” The other man sneered as he put the now empty container on the table, taking up his seat by the bedside once more.

“Fuck off, Gene.” He muttered under his breath.

“You know,” Gene ignored the redhead to strum his fingers along his armored knee, “That bridal shower did seem pretty nice. Agent Carolina’s back in shape, it looks like.”

“No thanks to you assholes.” Simmons glared at Gene for the jab to his friend before casting a speculative look around the space once more, “Are the rest of you around here somewhere too?”

This had to be some kind of split everyone up, get revenge plan, right? If he could keep Gene talking, which wouldn’t be too hard to do if he found what the suck-up wanted to ramble on about, maybe he would spill where the others were or what exactly was going on and…

“Just me.” Gene sounded positively smug all the same as he answered, “Can’t say I’m too shocked that the great and powerful UNSC decided to cover that up.”

It wasn’t too surprising to Simmons either, unfortunately. They probably hadn’t even assumed Gene would be much of a threat if Temple was still behind bars. But Sim Troopers could be surprising, he knew.

“I was sort of shocked that dumbass Grif wasn’t your plus one though.” Gene still seemed fixated on the shower topic.

Simmons couldn’t help but flinch at the mention of Grif’s name. Had he somehow gotten ahold of Jensen’s handwritten note on the invite then? Hadn’t Donut saved it for his scrapbook?

“Let me guess, still having trouble in paradise?” Gene seemed to want to twist the knife in deeper.

“Sh—shut up!” Simmons warned, closing his eyes at the sensation that the world was possibly tilting noticeably just then.

Gene watched the way he dug his hands onto the bedspread underneath him to steady himself with interest, and Simmons shut his mouth. There was no fucking way he would say how awkward things still were with Grif and Simmons dodging stuff in front of a massive dick like Gene.

Gene laughed suddenly, “Have you been replaced for good then, even after that stupid volcano stunt?”

Simmons launched to his feet, refusing to take any more snide remarks from a jackass murderer who didn’t know a fucking thing about him or Grif. He opened his mouth to shout, and everything lurched around him. He wobbled on suddenly very shaky legs, falling to the side…

Only for Gene to have stood up as well. Simmons bumped heavily into his armor as the other man crushed him against his side.

Gene’s grip was numbingly tight, “We’re just about ready to get going then.”

*****

It was rather easy, guiding a thoroughly disoriented Simmons out of the house and onto the utterly empty, deathly quiet streets of the now long-gone colony.

A lot easier than when a non-armored Gene had been trying to drag a pretty much unconscious Simmons through the leaky corridors of the underwater lair before since currently, even though it was very much a struggle for the cyborg to remain so, the redhead was at least cognizant enough this time to put his feet forward so that Gene wasn’t completely dragging him along.

Gene had wanted him to be more awake and aware this time, to let things better soak into the other maroon-wearing man’s stubborn head. No joy without a reaction, after all. He had a feeling even someone like Buckey would agree with him on that point, and they had rarely agreed on much of anything.

Unlike before, Gene had kept his armor on, so even with the added heft of Simmons’ cybernetics, he wasn’t having any trouble keeping Simmons hauled up on his feet and pressed tightly against his side this time.

Simmons wasn’t saying anything as they continued their stroll, no doubt finding it difficult at the moment to simply remain standing upright. His head would tilt side-to-side though, human eye impossibly large and disbelieving at the state of seeming disrepair the colony was in, his breath coming out in sharp gasps both due to the forced exertion and also no doubt due to the smell of rot all around them.

Every so often, the redhead would try feebly pulling away from Gene as if he was attempting to make a run for it, but Gene would just tighten his hold to a crushing point until the cyborg gave up and settled down.

Having Simmons wake up in one of the homes of the unfortunate colonists, threatening him to _choose_ to actively drug himself into a state of helplessness, and then escorting him through town to his new residence did seem like it was probably rather excessive to the untrained eye. But, Gene was nothing if not thorough in what he set his mind to do. What better way was there to introduce the other Sim Trooper to his fate, to really hit home how things were going to be?

Gene had learned his revenge plans from one of the best, after all. His chest almost swelled with pride at what Temple might think if he saw what he had come up with, what words of praise Surge might have thrown his way at the thought of him so thoroughly torturing and ruining one of the good-for-nothing cowards that his counterpart Sarge had betrayed them to help protect.

The two eventually came upon the safehouse that Gene had so painstakingly renovated on the outskirts of the colony proper. He paused in the open gateway of the deceptive white picket fence that surrounded the beautifully maintained lawn and cozy-looking house. He might have always questioned the timing for their gardening and upkeep talk, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t been listening to whenever Doc and Cronut had discussed the topics despite there being nothing but sand in Desert Gulch.

Cronut had even lamented a bit when their colony resource pilfering had resulted in the destructions of fledgling colonies like this one because who would tend to all the landscaping when everyone was dead and gone? His priorities had always been a tad skewed, Gene supposed. He imagined his pink-armored ally would appreciate his attempts at keeping things _“homey.”_

“Here we are.” Gene muttered, just loud enough for Simmons to hear him.

As for the blue-colored house itself, Gene had picked it largely because this building, more-so than any others in the colony, reminded him of his childhood home somewhere in nondescript suburbia. He happened to know, thanks to a quick file perusal and satellite imaging that Simmons had grown up in one rather similar too, albeit under slightly different circumstances.

Those slightly different circumstances had, in a way, always been both infuriating to him and oddly enticing.

The house had just been too good of an opportunity to pass up on. And, since it turned out that only one poor soul had met their end there, it had been rather easy to clean up too. He valued efficiency more now that he was well and truly on his own.

Well, he corrected as he felt the weight at his side, he _had_ been alone before.

He pulled the cyborg into the yard, pausing just long enough to close the gate behind them. The added note of fake domesticity in the action resulted in Simmons attempting to struggle once more, but he ignored the weak flailing as he carried them on to the door of the house, unlocking it to quickly sweep the other man through the threshold.

The space inside was a foyer that led to a living room and a well-stocked kitchen. Gene had wanted to make sure that he wouldn’t need to go off-planet for a long while to help Simmons settle into the new routine easier. He had cleaned up what furniture he could from the previous owner, salvaging the rest from various other buildings while he had prepared. Not like anything was being used by anyone else here, was it?

All in all, the place appeared very well-maintained and lived in. He had been doing nicely for himself, all things considered. The upstairs bedrooms and bathroom were also as nicely decorated as the homes in Cronut’s magazines always were.

Though, really, he had spent the most time and energy on the rooms in the basement and a part of him was beyond elated that he could finally put them to use. It was no wonder then that he hurriedly pushed Simmons along to the basement steps, practically walking down them two at a time as the lights dimly flickered to life overhead.

Simmons’ entire body seemed to freeze as they remained standing on the bottom of the stairs, taking in the sight.

The first room was one that had resembled a rec center when Gene had first toured the house. He had removed all of the games and toys, putting up containers and shelves full of various equipment and supplies he thought he might need. There was a steady mechanical hum from the computers and surveillance equipment he had placed along the walls.

On the far back wall, there was a nondescript door off to the side, a one-way mirror taking up the rest of the space. The dim lighting in the area beyond began blinking to life, revealing a…

Simmons’ breath came out in a pained gasp, and he knew he had gotten the desired effect.

Gene’s hold on Simmons tightened considerably as he dragged the now unresponsive cyborg over to the door. He grinned jubilantly as he mused out loud, “Cronut did always say you had to kill to get a walk-in like this.”

The former closet door opened, and Gene tossed Simmons inside. The redhead stumbled for a moment before he went crashing to the ground, the look of utter shock and terror on his face more than Gene had ever hoped for as he stepped into the area behind him.

“Welcome to your new home.”

*****

Simmons had very little time to process the myriad of questions flying through his mind as his back hit the hard cement ground of the _“walk-in”_ closet he had been unceremoniously tossed into. At least, that was the closest domestic equivalent he could think of. _“Cell”_ was a much more apt description.

The whole space was about the size of a small bedroom. One that appeared to hold a small, hosed shower area complete with a drain in the far back corner. Above that was a high shelf that remained empty for the moment. Nearby, there was a nondescript, heavy-looking chair.

The floor was thick cement, the walls metal. The rest of the space completely empty save for _very_ secure-looking rods and looped stakes protruding every so often from the ground, walls, and ceiling. Attached to all of them were…

Simmons swallowed dryly. The fact that he was looking at cuffs and various other restraints not at all lost on him. They weren’t the _“kinky”_ kind that Donut and Kai liked to tease people about either. Rather, they all seemed fairly high-tech and durable. As if they were built with the idea to restrain some _very_ heavy-duty security risks.

Even ones who might have cybernetic upgrades.

Simmons was trying to move, willing his still not-at-all compliant body to follow through on the surge of adrenaline he felt because _this was fucking bad_. But Gene was towering over him, maroon-clad legs placed on either side of Simmons’ body.

Gene shoved Simmons down onto the ground again. _Hard._ Simmons’ teeth clattered painfully in his now cut-up mouth, the back of his skull throbbing worse than before. On top of his still unresponsive limbs and sheer panic, the cyborg saw a shitload of spots in his vision.

Simmons was so disorientated and in so much pain that he didn’t register Gene reaching out and tightly gripping his cybernetic arm until he had forced it well over his head, the telltale sound of a lock clicking into place as a cuff was placed around it. The redhead’s eyes opened wide in alarm, and he tried unsuccessfully to yank his arm out of the restraint as Gene painfully gripped his human hand to do the same.

With both his arms now pinned over his head, Simmons managed to work up the strength to try to kick Gene away. But Gene had already gripped ahold of another restraint protruding from a stake that Simmons had nearly fallen on top of when he had been pushed into the closet-cell. He snapped it around Simmons’ cybernetic leg with ease, the restraint so close to the stake that Simmons was unable to move that limb at all.

That just left his other leg, and while he knew it wouldn’t do any good even if it _could_ connect with Gene’s stupid face, Simmons bared his teeth and aimed his foot directly at the jackass’ blue visor with as much of a snarl as he could manage.

Gene seemed ready, however, as he moved his head to avoid the blow, instead grabbing Simmons’ foot by the ankle in his gauntleted hand and giving the limb a vicious _yank_ in response.

The power behind the motion, thanks to his armor, caused Simmons’ whole body to get pulled along with it. He let out a sharp gasp of pain as his arms were harshly pulled against the restraints, his flesh-and-blood shoulder socket in particular feeling as if it was on fucking fire. The part where his metallic leg met flesh hurt sharply as the back of his head smacked loudly against the concrete once more.

As Simmons fought back tears in his green eye, Gene was busy maneuvering his gripped leg closer to a cuff. The one he picked out was farther away, no doubt due to the uncomfortable position that forced Simmons’ body into as he had to turn as much as his restrictions allowed while his leg was pulled off to the side.

“Your clothes have certainly seen better days.” Gene remarked observationally from where he was all but straddling Simmons now.

Simmons grit his teeth against the looming sense of pain he was still feeling, opening his mouth to give a snide retort when the maroon-armored man pulled something out of a holster on his side. The cold metal of the combat knife pressed right up against Simmons’ eye, and he regarded it with a new lurching wave of panic building up inside of him.

“Remember when you pulled that knife on me back on Earth?” Gene asked rather calmly, pressing the blade onto freckled skin for added emphasis, “It’s funny how you and Cronut like the same weapon.”

Simmons found that he couldn’t dare speak until Gene lazily moved the knife from his face. His voice was shaky, however, as he felt the maniac press the blade farther down against the collar of his tuxedo and that silly maroon bowtie, “G—go fuck yourself, Gene.” He managed to snarl out as best he could.

Gene’s visor tilted up in amusement, clearly taking the false bravado for what it so obviously was, “Don’t try to thrash around too much, Simmons.” He advised as he pressed the knife’s edge further down, causing Simmons to wince when it started slightly biting into flesh, “I honestly don’t care if I nick you.”

Just like that, Gene began using the knife to cut away Simmons’ clothing in strips, no doubt on account of the added drama it provided. The asshole.

Even with Simmons remaining as still as possible, the knife cut into him shallowly. His instinctive attempts to jerk away in response made the whole thing that much worse. He had a long cut all the way from the crook of his neck down to his torso, along with several smaller lacerations dotting his chest to his cybernetic plating and along his shoulders and arm too when Gene was finished with his shirt.

The cyborg shuddered and tried not to hiss too loudly in pain when Gene ran his hands along the cuts, pressing experimentally on them before he turned his attention to Simmons’ pants. Simmons did actually start thrashing more when he felt Gene start up again, resulting in even deeper cuts on his thighs and leg despite his futile efforts to get Temple’s lackey to stop.

Simmons stilled once more as the last scrap of fabric was removed, shocked into motionlessness as he felt the parts of him that were still flesh and blood begin to heat up at the overwhelming sense of embarrassment and shame being exposed like that brought about.

He didn’t even like his body in most ideal situations…

_Grif looked amazing, standing before him, even with the patches of skin that were still far too pale. Simmons’ breath drew in sharply as he held his hand against the tanned chest, feeling_ his _heart beating for Grif as he stared into hypnotic, mismatched eyes._

_How someone this incredible could even stand looking at his lanky, part metal frame with intense eyes, as though he were trying to soak up every single note, was beyond Simmons. There was no way, if Tucker hadn’t activated that stupid temple that…_

_But then Grif was pulling him close, and Simmons pressed his mouth hungrily over the chubby man’s. Any doubts for that moment, because he’d always fucking wanted this, just flew out the window._

…And this current situation was in no fucking way close to ideal.

Gene leaned back to admire his handiwork, and Simmons hated the thought of what he probably saw.

“So tell me…” Gene spoke after several uncomfortable moments passed by, “Did you give _Grif_ a good view like this back in that closet on Chorus?”

Simmons had turned his head away and closed his eyes to avoid Gene’s gaze, but they snapped open incredulously at his comment. He stared up in bewilderment, his freckled body turning even redder in embarrassment. How the fuck did Gene…?

He wouldn’t, _couldn’t_ , think of Grif anymore while trussed up like this. So, Simmons glared at Gene for trying to ruin that more than he himself probably already had, “Sh—shut up!” He got out, anger bubbling past fear and humiliation for the moment, “What…what the fuck do you even want?”

Gene crouched down over Simmons once more, and the redhead winced at the uncomfortable weight on his chest. The Desert Gulch Red Team member reached out and ran a finger along his cheek, and Simmons fought the sudden urge to puke again.

“All of my teammates are either in jail now or dead.” Gene informed him, as if stating the weather.

Simmons frowned, turning his face to the side to try to break the unwanted physical contact, “Is it really a shock, given everything?” He asked, “You should be too—!”

Gene suddenly grabbed Simmons’ chin painfully, forcing him to look up into his looming visor as he jutted his face up unrelentingly. “It’s all because of you fucking assholes and your fucking interference!” he vehemently spat out, and Simmons knew he was going to have another bruise there as Gene’s fingers tightened, “If you had just played your roles like you were supposed to, if you dumb fucks had just listened to Temple, things could have gone differently, they’d—!”

“You guys murdered a shitload of innocent people and you were going to blow up the fucking Earth!” Simmons shot back, “No matter what happened at Desert Gulch, that was—!”

“It doesn’t fucking matter now.” The other man said, sighing as if Simmons was just not getting it before dropping the cyborg’s chin suddenly, “I’m going to get revenge and I’m not settling for being alone anymore.”

“What then?” Simmons’ usual anger and annoyance towards Gene was intensified by all of the fuckery that was going on, as well as how the asshole wasn’t making any sense, “Are you going to kill us off one-by-one? Try bartering us to get the remaining Blues and Reds back?”

The rather chastising smile he was no doubt displaying was clearly evident in Gene’s voice as he leaned back over Simmons, “You are definitely having trouble seeing the big picture here, Simmons.” He all but sang tauntingly as he reached out and started stroking the human side of Simmons’ face once more despite the grimace the gesture caused, “Are you really so stupid as to think a corrupt organization like the UNSC would deign to meet Sim Trooper hostage demands?” Gene chuckled mirthlessly, “And outright killing all of you isn’t going to do a damn thing either.”

Simmons stilled once more as Gene’s hand slowly trailed lower and lower, until it was resting on his chest where he smeared a bloody palm print there thanks to his cut.

“No, that’s wouldn’t do at all.” Gene murmured, “Which is why you’re going to be keeping me company in the meanwhile.”

Simmons’ mind went to the talk of the _“Murder Room”_ from before, and his brain became a terrifying blank as Gene continued resting his palm on his chest. His inner terror must have shown all the same on his face though, because Gene seemed downright _pleased_ as he patted Simmons’ cut before standing upright.

“I’m going to go get the First Aid kit, Simmons.” Gene told him in that falsely cheerful voice, “We don’t want you getting any infections now, do we?”

*****

As could perhaps be expected, Simmons did not accept his new situation all that readily. Not that Gene could necessarily blame him. While he had never personally seen the armor-trapped Freelancers in their first days of captivity, Temple had always seemed rather amused by the amount of struggle they evidently put up at first.

As he watched Simmons thrash against his bonds while screaming and shouting, he could see the twisted sort of appeal, even if his plans for Simmons were a bit different.

Before he retrieved the medical supplies and a drink bottle, Gene had stopped long enough to remove his armor now that he no longer absolutely needed it to keep the upper hand. By the time he had returned, Simmons’ shock had apparently thawed enough for him to well and truly panic, and Gene found himself staring at the scene through the mirror for a few moments, utterly transfixed.

He swallowed down the odd note of excitement that raced through him, glad that the monitoring equipment was recording perfectly, before he unlocked the door. He was almost disappointed at how quickly Simmons stopped given how the closet had been soundproofed. Fortunately, the recording would have audio. But the fearful, attempted glare thrown Gene’s way helped brighten things again just a bit.

Simmons was heaving, his body still red both from his embarrassment at having been stripped and now overexertion. There were marks starting to no doubt form from where the cuffs were biting into his skin, and the cuts from the knife earlier had all opened up more.

After having imagined this for months, it was a pleasing sight.

“All you did was injure yourself more.” Gene pointed out smugly as he sat on the ground next to the redhead, getting the items he’d brought with him ready.

Simmons was looking up at the ceiling and pointedly _not_ at him. It was annoying.

“This…is like that fucked up Murder Room?” Simmons finally got out, voice hoarse and filled with trepidation.

Gene opened up a case of gauze, “Not quite. The button for armor-lock was lost.” Along with Loco, who was the only person who would have known how to recreate the device. Gene sighed at the thought before continuing: “Admittedly, that would have made confinement a lot easier, though cleaning up would be tricky.”

Simmons frowned, and Gene knew he was trying to quell down his panic by latching onto facts. He could relate to the sentiment.

“Wh—what do you mean?”

Gene smiled softly, reaching over and touching the part where Simmons’ cybernetic arm met his still flesh-and-blood shoulder in an attempt to appear reassuring, “Simmons, I have no intention of having you die just yet.”

Simmons’ brow furrowed at this odd declaration, “It’s not exactly…instantaneous.” He said, unsure of where this conversation was headed.

“No, but it’s still too quick for what I have in mind.” Gene informed him pleasantly, “Besides, cleaning out the armor would be inefficient.”

“In—inefficient?” Simmons asked, still trying to process what Gene meant. The anticipation of when it would dawn on him was incredibly palpable.

“This whole space was built with hygiene in mind.” Gene told him, giving Simmons another clue to try to wrap his fear-addled brain around, “I figured you would appreciate that as much as I do.” He was opening up the antiseptic wipes now.

“The others will…fucking find you.” Simmons tried going for a brave front instead. Then again, it wouldn’t be nearly as fun for Gene if he didn’t.

“Maybe. Eventually.” He conceded as he wiped the first damp antiseptic cloth over Simmons’ bleeding skin, the other man tensing up and wincing underneath the stinging medication, “But, by then, I doubt you’ll want them to.”

Simmons glared up at him defiantly, but he couldn’t quite hide the look of confusion on his face at Gene doubting he would be glad for any potential future rescue, “Why the fuck would that be, asshole?” He finally asked, obviously scared of the answer.

He pressed his hand to Simmons’ chest, relishing in the twitching muscles underneath his palm that the action resulted in, “Think about it, Simmons,” Gene practically cooed down at the other man, “You’re going to be staying here for a long time. Every little need, every little function necessary to keep someone alive? It will happen, but you’re going to be completely reliant on someone else for it.” He loomed forward once more to take in the sight of Simmons’ eyes widening as the reality of his situation finally started sinking in, “By the time I decide we’re finished here, you’ll be completely dependent on me to survive. I’ll keep you going even when you no longer want to anymore.”

If it was even remotely possible, Simmons looked even paler than normal in the dim recess lighting overhead. Everything about this moment was so much better than even Gene had imagined it. He smiled again rather knowingly, “Will you really want anyone to see you in that state?”

Simmons didn’t respond verbally, but the horrified look suffusing his features said it all. Gene hummed contentedly as he went back to tending to the other man’s cuts, wondering if maybe he shouldn’t have brought down orange juice instead of water as a private little joke at Doc’s expense between the two of them.

*****

“Stop that.”

Dexter Grif frowned slightly at Locus’ remark, his hand raised to slap lightly against his knee in anticipation. The mercenary and former mass murderer turned near pacifist wasn’t even looking his way, eyes remaining fixed on the screen in front of them as A’rynasea continued traveling through space. Honestly, Grif was rather surprised it had taken as long as it did for Locus to comment on the excited, albeit nervous tick.

“I can’t exactly help it.” Grif replied back, fidgeting in his seat instead, “It wasn’t like finding you was a walk in the park, and we’re getting back to Chorus way later than I expected. I’m fucking nervous!”

Locus raised an eyebrow, “It’s not as if I was wanting to be found in the first place.” He pointed out.

“Aw,” Caboose whined from his spot behind the tall figure in steel and green, clapping his hand on Locus’ shoulder in an action that caused the man to twitch uncomfortably at the contact, “But then we wouldn’t have been able to thank you for saving Agent Washington. That wouldn’t be fair!”

Locus let out a defeated sigh, “Fine.” He managed to utter out.

Grif leaned back further in his seat, beaming, “I’m just stoked we’re all heading back now. I can’t wait to see the looks on Kai and Simmons’ faces when we fucking land in this thing.”

He bet they would be priceless, even if the two decided to deck him for not having gotten in contact with them sooner. Still, he’d be able to make it up to them both before Jensen and Palomo’s wedding, at any rate.

Locus looked back over at him askance, “You mean you haven’t notified anyone about your return yet?”

It figured he would be a real stickler for routine and daily updates. Just like the Freelancers. Or Simmons. Grif absentmindedly looked around briefly for the familiar, surprisingly comforting in its inherent nerdiness signs of a color-coded chore wheel somewhere onboard the ship.

“Uh, no?” Grif finally responded casually when he figured that Locus probably kept his chore wheel hidden somewhere to maintain his space cred, “That would totally ruin the surprise, dude.”

From his spot sitting next to Locus, Sarge harrumphed and nodded his head, “For once, I agree with Grif.” He said, making the customary grimace such words evidently required whenever he spoke them, “The element of surprise is crucial.”

“In a battle, yes, it can be,” Locus was slow to concede, a frown settling over his features, “But traveling to Chorus shouldn’t need it, especially for the three of you.”

It still was hard to believe that they were considered something of big, damn heroes there. Grif never felt that way, even when they had been basking in retirement.

“Life is always a constant battle.” Sarge stated sagely.

“Yes,” Caboose nodded, “For hugs and cookies.”

…Well, Grif certainly couldn’t argue with that sound logic. Especially the cookies part.

“So why am I the one taking you back?” Locus felt a change of topic was evidently needed, however.

“Because orange juice does not work as well on ship controls as it does on bullet wounds!” Caboose practically all but shouted out happily, and Grif grimaced slightly at the altogether bumpy and rather sticky landing that had caused onto the backwater planet where they had finally tracked Locus down to. Simmons probably hadn’t thought the drink portion of his packed lunches out as carefully as he should have, even if it was the thought that counted.

“Right.” Locus’ tone was still doubtful, though he pushed through it like a champ, “I’m not exactly welcome on Chorus.”

Which was perfectly understandable, really, since he had been a murderous, genocidal maniac there until his change of heart. There was really no way to atone for something like that.

Sarge reached over and patted Locus’ shoulder encouragingly, “Well, you snuck planet-side once before to drop Washington off at the hospital. I’m sure you can do it again!” He told him confidently.

Locus frowned, “I don’t want to give the President or anyone else further trouble.”

Grif snorted, “A little too late for that, pal.” All eyes turned to him and the orange-armored man shrugged, “What? It’s the truth. You have to just suck it up and try to do better from here on out. Or something.” He stated, “Besides, this is the best solution all around because like fuck did I want to wait for a pickup.”

“And why was that?” Locus sounded as if he felt he would regret even asking that question.

Grif’s face darkened with the onset of a blush, but it was Caboose who actually happily answered instead, “Oh, Grif’s been talking and mumbling to himself in darkened corners about finally telling a big secret to Simmons because he wants to be super-bestest-buddy-friends with him forever who maybe cuddle even more.”

“You weren’t supposed to have heard that, Caboose.” Grif mumbled in response, making a mental note from here on out to _always_ pick his darkened exposition corners more carefully.

“Huh. And here I thought you’d already done that.” Sarge remarked, not at all really surprised.

Locus nodded his head in agreement, “I had just assumed…”

Grif groaned and ran a hand over his now very much burning face, “It’s complicated, okay?” He muttered, “Not that it is _any_ of you prying assholes’ business, but I think it’s important to get it out there before we get dragged into some other stupid, life-threatening crap.”

“That is so romantic.” Caboose breathed out, “I bet Captain Pastry would put it on a pillow for you.”

Sarge whistled appreciatively, “Well, I’m surprised it’s you, but it’s about time one of you boys finally grew half a pair.”

Grif mumbled something about crazy old men who couldn’t even admit to having crushes on crazy, reformed mercenaries who were probably way out of their league before he glanced over at Locus hopefully, “Piloting might help me get the edge off.” The tan-skinned man said hopefully.

“No.” Locus’ response was immediate and quite adamant.

“Does that mean I can?” Caboose asked over Grif’s pout, raising his hand in the air for added emphasis.

“Forget about navigatin’!” Sarge interrupted excitedly as he crowded into Locus’ personal space, “What’s the firepower like on this beauty?”

Locus sighed and most likely counted to three in his head, “Would it be possible for all three of you to step outside the cockpit for a moment?” He asked contemplatively.

*****

When they oh-so-stealthily arrived back on Chorus, after Locus assured Caboose that A’rynasea’s cloaking would be fine and that covering the alien ship in shrubbery would only make it more suspicious and that, no, it didn’t count as cheating in hide-and-seek, the youngest Blue and oldest Red were quite eager to show Locus to their temporary quarters.

Caboose wanted to do so to show Locus just how well Washington was doing now, while Sarge thought Locus seeing Red Team living the _“good life”_ might have him seriously consider his enlistment pitch despite Locus’ protests that he wasn’t joining up anytime soon. Grif headed that way as well, figuring his sister and Simmons were probably there too and knowing there would be hell to pay if he didn’t see them first.

The four stopped just inside the common room, the sight of everyone gathered around a sitting Kai and Carolina with incredibly stressed-out and uber-serious expressions making the tense atmosphere all the more palpable.

Grif’s stomach dropped, but he decided to try cracking a joke when all eyes landed on the group of newcomers, “Okay, Kai, what the fuck did you do this time?”

Maybe it was something as simple as her having gotten someone inexplicably pregnant at the bridal shower. Maybe it was…

Kai looked absolutely stricken as she pulled away from Carolina’s consoling grip on her shoulder to stride over to her brother. “Nothing, asshole.” She stated grumpily as she bit her lip and then pulled him into an unusually tight hug that only made the alarm bells ringing in his head up their volume, “I just wish you’d left us a fucking message or something.”

Grif glanced over the top of her head at the other Reds and Blues, some of them either pointedly not looking his direction or shooting way too worrying, sympathetic glances his way. It didn’t take him long to figure out that one color, one specific person, wasn’t in the mix.

“Where the fuck is Simmons?” Grif asked shakily not a second later, feeling like he’d been punched in the gut the very moment the words left his mouth.

*****

One of the first things Simmons noticed during his stay in captivity was that Gene had somehow rigged the closet to be swelteringly, near suffocating-ly hot at all times.

He assumed that at least one of the tech pieces that he had briefly glimpsed before he had been locked away had to have been a heater of some kind, because there was no other way he could explain it. The redhead tried thinking about his current situation in terms of observations and equations. It made it easier to cope with the utter horribleness of his new routine.

But with it being as insufferably warm as it always was, with it being so stuffy he could barely breathe and with sweat forming and trickling down his body constantly, he found it hard to really focus too much on any coherent thoughts.

His mind would wander without him realizing it, going to memories he would rather not dwell on. Happier ones that made him feel worse now, painful ones that had him thinking he fucking _deserved_ this, or visions and hallucinations he would rather not recall at all.

Simmons imagined no one even noticing he was missing, or Gene deciding to still bomb the wedding and make him watch, or one of the others being put through this, or Carolina and Washington stuck in armor-lock still and already wasted away to nothing, or Grif pulling away in disgust following the Temple of Procreation incident, or Grif being stuck on the moon by himself, or Grif never coming back…

He was almost thankful when Gene came back to _“take care”_ of him, breaking up the fears and self-loathing for just a little while. Even if he was a smug, sadistic asshole who loved rubbing in Simmons’ face how truly pathetic he was at this moment, how helpless he’d become.

The extreme temperature in the room never seemed to bother Gene.

“This is nothing compared to Desert Gulch.” Gene mused out loud once as he wiped off the sweat trickling in itch-ridden rivulets along Simmons’ cybernetic seams, “Or, you know, dangling over a volcano.”

Simmons chose not to retort to the obvious bait, causing Gene to scowl momentarily in disappointment. He changed his tune a second later, however, as he picked up the water bottle he had brought along with him instead, forcibly tilting Simmons’ head back as he pushed the drink past his lips.

The redhead had no choice but to swallow all of it down in deep, gulping motions to keep from choking, even though quite a bit dribbled messily down his chin.

Gene always made sure he drank quite a bit of liquid whenever he visited, remarking on how parched Simmons surely was and how hydration was so important. His personal goal of keeping Simmons alive through any means necessary apparently a rather important one.

Simmons hated it, especially with how he would sputter and choke afterwards as Gene rubbed his back or shoulder in mock consolation. That alone was mortifying enough as Gene ran a finger down the water trail a second later. What happened eventually _later_ was something that Gene would always make a big show over as he meticulously cleaned and noted how horribly messy things would be without him there, and it was _beyond_ mortifying. Simmons would remain petrified in shame for well after, struggling against an all-consuming urge to cry because Gene seemed to be desperately wanting just that.

It was mostly water, though sometimes alcohol was thrown into the mix depending on how lucid Gene wanted him on a particular day. He injured Simmons on occasion: a cut here, a scrape there, some small burns to help him get the idea of what lava could do when just a teensy-tiny drop of it managed to get through damaged power armor. Gene would bring down orange juice as he carried the medical supplies to his prisoner, mulling over all the times that Doc had inadequately prescribed it as the acidic, tart juice burned its way down the cyborg’s throat.

“It does seem like all of this,” Gene set the now empty bottle aside as he palmed the sweat forming on Simmons’ back as his shuddering slowed, “Makes it hard for you to stay clean.” His hand gripped Simmons’ head tightly and he yanked him closer so that Simmons’ ear was by his mouth. Simmons shuddered even more as Gene’s warm breath hit the shell of his earlobe, “Your mom was something of a neat freak, right? Always tried keeping things spotless.”

Simmons froze, wondering how the fuck Gene knew that. When she wasn’t drinking or trying to ignore where her poor life choices had led her, cleaning and maintaining the _“perfect”_ house had been his mother’s ultimate goal. Simmons wasn’t even sure when she’d decided that her only son didn’t fit inside her house, even as he tried so hard to show her that he didn’t have to make a mess, that he could be neat and tidy too because he already felt like he had lost his distant father and he didn’t want the same to happen with her.

“This must be hard for you, since you fell in to that habit too.” Gene’s voice was full of fake sympathy and pity, the hand that wasn’t gripping Simmons’ head still ghosting over his bare back and Simmons swore that the fucking asshole was tracing mathematical equations against his skin, “Then again, you _were_ with that slob, so maybe being dirty and gross isn’t something you really mind?”

Simmons could feel the smile curving Gene’s lips into a sneer, and his eyes narrowed as he tried to maneuver his head away from the other man’s grip, “Fuck off.” He managed to spit out.

Gene, meanwhile, looked at his straining arms in utter amusement as Simmons hands clenched into fists, “It’s rather hard to punch someone when you can’t move, huh?” He asked, bemused.

*****

He kept Simmons restrained, save for when he was drugged.

Simmons had learned not to struggle against his restraints when Gene approached him with the syringe as that just made the injection of the muscle relaxant and paralytic agent cocktail that the blue-eyed man seemed so proud of all the more problematic and painful. Gene had done so frequently enough that a pinpoint scar had developed just above the crook of Simmons’ elbow where he would always methodically stab the needle.

Whenever Gene was done, he would murmur on and on about how well-behaved Simmons had been throughout the whole thing, stroking his hair as he fell back on his haunches, waiting for when Simmons’ body went completely slack against the cuffs and straps before he untied him.

The reason for the differing stakes and bars throughout the space, along with all of the various types of shackles and bonds, had quickly become apparent the more time Simmons spent locked away. Gene intended to keep him chained at all times, but he apparently wanted to minimize the amount of damage that continued restraint could have on a human body.

Gene would tie Simmons up in various uncomfortable positions for who knew how long, but he always made the effort to thoroughly inspect Simmons’ body from head to toe whenever he visited. As his probing fingers and regard bore over him, Simmons tried to make his mind go blank. If Gene felt a body part of the redhead was beginning to get too bruised, or that a sore was starting to form from his current position, he would prep him for moving places again.

He had two favorite spots in particular that he always went back to, and Simmons absolutely hated them.

The first was pretty much any time he put Simmons against the far back wall of the dungeon space, strapped down so that he was facing the mirror. The second was when he pulled the heavy chair into the middle of the room, latching it to the ground to keep it upright before he placed Simmons on it. He always had it facing the mirror as well.

Simmons had quickly noticed Gene’s fascination with the reflective wall. How he would glance over at it every so often as if to confirm what was happening was what he would in fact see there.

It had the opposite effect on Simmons, who had never been particularly fond of his reflection in particular. He hadn’t been a huge fan of looking at himself before, and it was hard not to dwell on his disliked appearance through glass …

But now? Now all he saw was a pitiable reflection of his current, disgusting state staring back at him. Simmons could barely recognize himself anymore, and that scared him shitless.

Gene had finished shackling his legs to the sides of the chair, and Simmons hoped he wouldn’t comment again on the view that provided him. He was barely able to keep the bile down as it was when a hand landed heavily on his knee.

“I’ll probably have to start upping the drug dosage again.” Gene told him, giving Simmons’ knee a pat before standing up behind the chair to once again admire his handiwork in the mirror, “You put up a bit more fuss this time.”

Simmons opted not to respond, refusing to turn his head from the side until he felt hands settling down on his shoulders.

“You don’t like your reflection, do you?” The other man asked him, almost softly.

The cyborg couldn’t prevent himself from rolling his eyes, “Would you?” He finally murmured out.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw in the reflective surface as well as felt Gene’s hand running across the metallic plating covering a portion of his body, “I can almost understand, seeing as how _this_ is always looking back at you.”

Simmons’ frown deepened. _That_ was one of the few aspects of his body that he’d never had an issue with even if it could be problematic sometimes. After all, if he hadn’t become a cyborg than Grif would have most definitely…

Thinking about what could have happened to Grif if he hadn’t donated his parts caused his voice to come out much more watery in that moment than he had intended, “Th—that’s not…” Simmons tried to say, voice cracking and fading from disuse.

He would never regret that. _Ever._

Gene’s grip tightened at his weakly voiced protest, a darkening look crossing over his features momentarily before he smoothed it all over with a contented smile that churned Simmons’ gut even more. “So you were just never fond of what you saw there, huh?” He asked as cheerily as Donut would when striking up a conversation about the weather, “It’s probably even harder to look at now.”

Gene’s smirk widened and he leaned over Simmons, his lips practically brushing up against Simmons’ cheek as he whispered in a conspiratorially gleeful voice, “Personally? I can’t get enough of this sight.”

*****

Really, keeping someone alive was a lot more work than outright killing them was.

Gene was just finishing up cleaning the cell, his talk going into how obviously superior the _Star Wars_ prequel trilogy was and how he was fairly certain that Biff had stolen his Collector Edition copies to use for target practice with Temple out in Desert Gulch even if he had never been able to outright prove it. Which sucked because not only did it remind him of an asshole teammate who still probably shouldn’t have died the horrible way he did, but also about how a life of revenge left little room for shopping for vintage antique DVDs, not to mention how Temple and the others were all in jail if they weren’t dead and gone now too.

“Why here?”

“What?” Gene asked, blinking in surprise at the sudden question, both annoyed at the interruption but almost giddy that Simmons had asked it since, if he wasn’t being withdrawn until Gene addressed him most of the time now, he was still trying to be defiantly sullen.

Simmons was sitting upright in the limited amount of freedom that Gene had allowed him this time. He had shackled both of the redhead’s legs to a bar behind him close to the ground, which meant that Simmons was propped into a constantly kneeling position for the moment, his arms strapped tightly to his sides with a chain at his back tethering him to a stake in the wall. The collared leash restraint that helped to keep him upright was attached to the ceiling. It was a newer addition, one that Simmons had clearly been upset about earlier, which was why Gene was surprised that he had gotten over being sulky to talk.

The cyborg was still pointedly looking anywhere but at Gene, as if regretted speaking up now. But Gene knew he could correct that if he wanted to do so easily enough. He was more grateful to see a bit of curiosity shine through Simmons still. It had been a while since anyone had really asked him questions. Explaining things to the uninformed was always such a great pleasure for Gene.

Simmons looked as if repeating his question was likely to make him sick, but he swallowed dryly against it, “Why did you choose this colony?” He finally got out.

Ah. Gene was almost curious as to how long Simmons had been sitting on that query. An amused glint entered his blue eyes as he stepped in front of the other Sim Trooper. Casually, he reached out and grabbed the restraint leash overhead, twisting it somewhat to strain the collar and force Simmons to look his way. Simmons was going to have to make proper eye contact if he wanted to have a talk.

“It’s rather fitting, isn’t it?” Gene asked him in turn.

The blank look on Simmons’ face then indicated that _maybe_ the lines connecting this tragic colony that the Blues and Reds had visited and another one who-knew-where weren’t nearly as obvious as he had hoped. He frowned slightly before carrying on, hoping he had been correct in his assumption of what exactly Simmons knew: “I couldn’t find the exact colony your asshole teammate failed to protect, so I figured this would be the next best thing.”

Simmons blinked at the admission, looking rather shocked. And yet…

“Did you know that particular story, Simmons?” Gene asked, beaming, “Didn’t Grif _tell_ you?”

Simmons bit his lip, gaze falling downward as he shook his head as much as he could.

Gene’s mirth was probably very apparent across his face, “Really? I thought the two of you told each other _everything_.”

The flush that dotted Simmons’ skin intermingled with the rather guilty look on his face perfectly, “I…I knew about it, though.” He stated quietly, more to himself than to Gene, “He had nightmares. Talked in his sleep. I was concerned, s—so I…”

“You spied on your own friend!” Gene couldn’t be more proud of his Cronut impression then as he crowed that exclamation out scandalously, causing Simmons’ shamed coloration to rise as he flinched.

“I—I figured I shouldn’t say anything until he felt…like talking about it.”

Gene had to admit, he was rather impressed that someone like Simmons had kept that hidden for so long. It was probably a testament to how much he actually cared about his rapport with Grif, his not wanting to shake the boat so much…

The notion caused Gene to twist his hand around the leash again tightly, causing Simmons to lurch forward slightly as he gasped to maintain his air supply.

“Only he never has and probably never would.” Gene told him plainly, watching dispassionately as Simmons struggled to get into a decent position again, “And if Grif were to ever find out you were snooping, I doubt he’d buy a weak reason like concern. Whatever trust he might have for you, betrayal is hard to overlook.”

Like Biff and Temple, having known each other as long as they had. Never giving a damn about telling any of them until Gene had literally stumbled upon their stupid meeting spot…

Simmons’ face looked even more stricken as Gene’s words sunk in, “I was…I was just worried and—!” He tried sputtering out.

“And who would ever fucking believe that about a miserable, self-absorbed suck-up like you?”

Gene’s words had the intended effect, as Simmons sank as far back onto the ground as possible, his expression more bleak than Gene had seen in a while. This conversation was both wonderful and irritating as fuck all at once.

He leaned over Simmons, gripping the leash just enough to remind him that he was still there. “That night you two spent fucking in a closet, that you’ve been agonizing over because of what it could have meant?” Gene felt the redhead flinch below him, so he knew that Simmons was still listening, “What are the odds it wasn’t just another night for Grif?”

The reaction he got in response was instantaneous, and it sent a trill of excitement down his spin when he heard the pained snarl coming from the cyborg. Simmons surged forward as best he could against the restraints, either to headbutt Gene or because he had forgotten about the restraints Gene couldn’t say, but he was held back by the leg shackles and the pull on his back. The cyborg choked as the collar dug into the skin that was still left on his neck.

The end result was a rather pitiable fall against Gene’s chest, Simmons’ face muffled in the other man’s shirt. The brown-haired man held him there tightly, using the forced embrace to ease Simmons back into a better position.

“It’s all right, Simmons,” Gene soothed patronizingly into the red hair under his chin, deciding to not yet remark on the definite wetness he felt soaking the fabric of his shirt as Simmons started to futilely try pulling away, “I’m going to make sure the two of us share all sorts of things together.”

*****

Gene had not been lying about his intentions to keep things as clean and hygienic as possible. Simmons had long since learned to try to put up with the sheer shame and embarrassment that came with the wiping down and disinfectant constantly being applied to everything, including his person. Gene alternating between trying to be reassuring and soothing or completely degrading as he reminded Simmons of his ineptitude at even those kinds of daily tasks now didn’t help matters any.

He had long since started losing track of time, unless Gene decided to make a note of it for some twisted reason, but the showers that seemed to happen at least once a day were the worst part of the hygiene rituals. Simmons hated whenever Gene would cheerfully announce that it was time for one.

He would ply Simmons with whatever his usual drug of choice was if Simmons didn’t happen to be close enough to the shower already. If Simmons was still strapped to the chair, he would disconnect it from whatever stakes he’d attached it to in order to keep Simmons from knocking it over, hauling the whole thing over to the shower spot. Gene wouldn’t start the water up until he was absolutely certain that the cyborg was either lying limply on the floor or in no position to move around.

Then Gene would smile as he turned the damn thing on, waiting for the exact moment when the spray first touched skin and metal, when Simmons would always wince and his body gave a jolt regardless of what he was tied to or what was flowing through his system.

The water was always ice-cold, a temperature design choice that Simmons had no doubt Gene picked on purpose and was just _waiting_ to make some kind of long-winded point about if Simmons so much as gave him the pleasure of an opening for it.

Gene would move the nozzle all around Simmons in a deliberately slow manner, either setting it down to continue running in a steady stream underneath his prone form or adjusting it overhead as he busied himself with scrubbing every centimeter of Simmons raw with soap that had definitely not come from Donut’s secret moisturizing herbal stash. Nor was it one of Doc’s homemade aloe vera blends.

The other man was always painstakingly, embarrassingly thorough, to the point where Simmons had to hold back retching or tears with every lingering, overly rough touch. At least he could always blame that on the soap in his still human eye.

It seemed to go on forever before Gene would finally pull away, apparently satisfied with his work for the time being. Simmons’ skin would be practically turning blue, his cybernetics achingly cold. He could never hear whatever snide comment Gene threw his way over the chattering of his teeth as he violently shivered.

It took seemingly forever to feel warm again afterwards, even in the suffocating heat of his cell. Whenever he started to feel hot, it was in a more intense and feverish way than usual, often intermixed with rather uncomfortable chills.

Gene would wrap himself around him in those instances while toweling him off, discussing the scientific and practical uses of body heat and rehydrating Simmons when he started sweating again.

Simmons never, _ever_ felt remotely clean in that prison.

*****

After another fruitless day of searching, Grif trudged into Simmons’ bedroom on Chorus and plopped down onto the mattress, eyes raised to the ceiling above him. There was a shuffling of feet on the floor close by, but he ignored how Caboose had followed him in to sit at Simmons’ desk like a lost puppy.

Grif thought about giving Caboose the _“rat infestation”_ story he told Carolina and Donut when they had found him dozing in here instead of his room earlier, but he didn’t have the energy. Besides, he was fairly certain they hadn’t bought it either and had just been humoring him.

It wasn’t like his going into Simmons’ room was new. Neither he nor Simmons had chosen to remark on how Grif just didn’t want to be alone anymore, that waking up to see Simmons peaceably sleeping nearby was one of the most calming, breathtaking sights to the orange-armored soldier now. Sometimes he would just crawl into the bed and pull Simmons close, and neither said a word about waking up in a tangle of blankets together the next day.

It was like whenever he had wandered into Simmons’ empty room on the moon and his scent had calmed him. Only when Simmons _was_ around it was so much warmer, encompassing, and…

Fuck. Why couldn’t Grif have just stayed and said everything he had wanted to, _needed to_ , before instead of having to overthink things and make it awkward? He rubbed at his stinging eyes with the back of his hand. He had finally felt like maybe he could admit things out loud without an alien sex temple’s influence and now…

“Just what is this going to accomplish?” Locus’ gruff voice asked from the doorway.

“Chill. I just needed a minute to breathe.” Grif informed him, not even bothering to look in Locus’ direction.

They had been looking for over two weeks now, with no leads or clues in sight. It was like the nerd had just vanished, and with every passing moment the tightness in Grif’s chest threatened to suffocate him.

“Breathing is very important.” Caboose muttered, “Simmons usually likes it when people keep breathing in his room.”

Well, no one really wanted dead bodies in their personal space so Grif gave Caboose that line of logic.

“What?” Locus, however, did not seem to follow the Blue’s logic.

“Simmons once gave me a backwards hug when I ate a chip wrong in here, and he kept asking me if I was breathing okay afterwards.” The blond-haired young man recalled nostalgically, “Then he told Grif that he didn’t know where the chips had gone so that I could keep breathing.”

Grif smirked at the story, a bittersweet note hitting him at Caboose’s recollection, “I totally knew the kiss-ass was lying about that,” since it wasn’t like Simmons’ nervous tells weren’t hard to spot if you had caught on to them, “But I didn’t know he had been covering for you, Caboose.”

Caboose nodded, “Yes, I snack with Simmons a lot and talk about Church when the rest of Blue Team is busy.” He stated rather wistfully, “I try to get him to talk about you too.”

“R—really?” Grif asked, genuinely surprised. For a minute, a bizarre sense of hope and giddiness overrode the still hard to fathom notion that Simmons was missing, as well as the overwhelming sense of fear and worry that realization brought on, as he looked over at Caboose for confirmation.

“But Simmons always has trouble breathing when talking about you.” Caboose concluded, tilting his head towards Grif, “Maybe someone asked him about being best friends with you and he took a nap and now he is lost?”

Grif sighed, the reality of the current situation once more rearing its ugly head, “No, Caboose. That would be really out of the norm for the nerd.”

“And this being so out-of-character is precisely why we can’t be wasting precious time.” Locus noted, “The others are scouring security footage and checking ship logs again. It would be prudent for us to do the same.”

Grif huffed and sat up, “I know.” He had just needed a second to get as close to his center as he could without Simmons there.

He didn’t want to think of how far off the mark he still felt.

Locus shot him a knowing look, “Better?”

Grif smirked sarcastically, “What do you think?”

“I think someone,” Locus paused, choosing his next words rather carefully, “ _Close_ to you, and a fellow member of Red Team, is missing and that it is up to us to find them.”

Grif snorted, “I thought you weren’t a member of anything.”

The mercenary shrugged, “That doesn’t mean I still can’t assist.”

Caboose jumped up at his words, clapping his hands excitedly, “I bet Red Sargent will be happy!”

As Locus raised an eyebrow and inquired from Caboose as to why he thought that, Grif’s hands tightened on the sides of the mattress underneath him. He silently hoped for who-knew-how-many-times now that Simmons was fucking all right.

*****

“What do you think?” Gene’s voice chimed pleasantly into the air as he held the object out in front of Simmons, only about a meter or so from the cyborg’s face, “I thought Cronut would comment about how the place needs some ambiance.”

There was a slight smell of burnt rubber and plastic wafting from what appeared to be an extremely damaged volleyball, and Simmons instantly regretted how Gene had kept him spread out on his stomach on the floor for a while now. He regretted it even more-so when he saw what appeared to be a crudely painted-on maroon helmet on the face of the object. The edges were somewhat singed and burnt, and he felt dread pooling in his gut.

“W—what is that?”

Gene looked from the ball down to Simmons, mock surprise on his face, “Oh, you mean there was something else that Grif decided not to tell you?” He taunted as he sat on the floor in front of Simmons and set the ball down next to him carefully.

“I retrieved this from the volcano after all of you had patted one another on the back and went on your merry way.” There was a cold glint in Gene’s eyes then, but he quickly covered it up to continue with his story, “Before you left, your friend wanted to dump some extra baggage.”

Simmons closed his eyes tightly, trying to focus on the aching strain in his limbs and back instead of Gene’s words just then, but he already knew what he was going to say.

“Apparently, Grif really didn’t want you guys to know just how much you abandoning him had messed him up.”

Gene leaned up and over Simmons then, tracing the grooves of his spine with his fingers. He turned his attention onto a burn he had just put on the redhead’s skin a few minutes before. That burn must have apparently been what had made Gene so nostalgic for more of his volcano talk. He pressed his finger against it as Simmons let out a small moan of discomfort.

Simmons’ eyes opened again, only for the singed volleyball to be shoved roughly against his nose, the smell causing him to gag as peeling paint flaked off onto his face.

“Looks familiar, doesn’t it?”

Gene pulled the volleyball safely out of Simmons’ very limited reach, leaving to get the med-kit.

When Simmons dozed off, it was to nightmares of Grif still being stuck on the moon, surrounded by cruel, mocking visages of his friends as the blockade worsened and Chorus couldn’t get any more supplies there.

The redhead woke up to Gene gingerly stroking the knife cut under his eye, the one that he had made sometime ago to commemorate the black eye that Simmons had given him back at the underwater lair. Gene smiled before moving the volleyball up onto the empty shelf off to the side.

Now there were two reflections looking back at him here. Simmons absolutely hated it.

*****

Simmons’ appetite was largely lacking, which Gene supposed was understandable given the stress of captivity.

At first, Gene hadn’t minded so much as he could get liquid down the lanky man’s throat just fine, even if it was rather aggravating that the effort he was putting into making nutritiously sound meals was going to waste. They all came from Cronut’s cookbook collection no less. No wonder his pink-armored teammate had been a pro with a knife. The footnotes from Lorenzo in Italian were a bit odd, though.

As the captivity carried on, however, Gene knew it wouldn’t do to have Simmons’ lack of appetite continue. After all, not eating wouldn’t exactly fit into Gene’s _“keep alive”_ strategy.

The use of the funnel and tube quickly remedied that, the outcome being so horrendous that Gene almost felt a comment afterwards was unnecessary.

“You just had to go and make things more complicated for yourself by being stubborn.” He chided indifferently all the same to a teary-eyed Simmons who was violently shaking and hacking with his no doubt immensely raw throat on the ground in front of him as he struggled to keep his first meal in days down.

Simmons didn’t make any further protest about Gene feeding him then following that, even if the telltale signs of embarrassment and humiliation remained evident in his body language. The first time that he managed to finish everything that had been on his plate, Gene rested his hand on his cheek, “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

He made sure that Simmons was positioned to face the mirror when he turned his head to the side, sliding his thumb pointedly over the drop of sauce he had put there so that Simmons could see the smear spread before he wiped it away.

*****

“I bet they haven’t even really noticed you’re gone yet.”

Simmons stilled at Gene’s seemingly random musing. He was currently shaving his leg as he had him strapped to the chair again. Gene insisted on keeping Simmons clean-shaven, claimed it made things easier in the long run, though Simmons felt it was just another of his humiliation tactics since he always did it in front of the mirror.

“Think about it.” Gene continued conversationally, “Your parents never cared about you. They didn’t bother checking in even when you became a hero, so I doubt that’s changed now.”

Simmons frowned, but opted not to say anything. It wasn’t like he could argue with Gene there.

“And I bet everyone else is carrying on well enough without you.”

Simmons opened his mouth to protest, and Gene nicked him with the razor. He fingered the blood trickle with bizarre fascination, apparently not done making his point.

“Those two lieutenants have probably long since gotten married by now, and I bet the ceremony was just _lovely_ with everyone there.” He stated, “And as for Grif,” Gene looked up at Simmons then and smirked at the pleading look he found there, “Grif’s surely found himself a new buddy by this point, don’t you think? I mean, if you two idiots never even properly talked after you left before, why would he bother waiting for you now?”

Simmons shuddered, shaking his head rather violently against the words as if he could drown them out. Gene stood up, and the sudden pressure of hands on either side of his head made Simmons freeze. The feel of the lips that came to rest on his forehead a second later was a very cruel imitation of tenderness.

“I have a feeling you were always the one who needed them more than they needed you.” Gene informed the cyborg when he pulled away, disappearing out the door.

Simmons spent the next several hours alone, staring at a very lonely and pathetic image in the mirror while trying to unconvincingly tell himself that wasn’t true.

*****

Gene had Simmons draped across his lap, stroking the flesh and blood portions of his body delicately, his touch lingering almost reverently on the cuts and wounds in various stages of healing that he found there. “Some of these are already scarring up.” He stated almost adoringly.

Simmons said nothing, his eyes remaining fixed on the mirror as he tried once again to unsuccessfully get his mind to go blank. Gene’s ministrations seemed to have only increased recently, and he was beyond terrified as to _why_ that was and what it could mean.

One of Gene’s hands traveled to Simmons’ metallic shoulder, rubbing up and down the artificial appendage. “I debated about removing these.” Gene told him, “Thought it might make things easier in the long run. But, I figured having them might keep you grounded.”

“What do you mean?” Simmons heard himself hollowly ask, hating that sometimes his natural inquisitiveness still got the better of him.

“They’re another reminder of just how much your stupid decisions have affected your life.”

“They aren’t stupid, they’re—!” Simmons felt a slight spark of protest flare up in him. Because of these cybernetic limbs, Grif was still—

He cut himself off however, horrified at what he had been about to say. Did he _really_ want to think of Grif while this was happening? Of anyone?

His abrupt pause was further pointed out by Gene digging his fingers into his side in clear warning.

Simmons hissed at the pain, and Gene hummed as if nothing had happened, “Things are so nice here now, with you behaving more.” The blue-eyed man stated gleefully.

Simmons made a face, biting back a retort he knew would get him in trouble. His defiance, however, didn’t seem to be lost on Gene. “Have you figured out yet that this place is being filmed, Simmons?” He asked, “Even when you’re alone.”

Simmons felt his stomach clench up tightly in knots. He had suspected that, given the equipment he had seen before, but…

“I wonder if I maybe shouldn’t send some of the footage off to your parents, or to Chorus?” Gene continued pleasantly, “Just to let everyone know what you’ve been up to?”

Simmons feebly began squirming again, but the restraints and Gene’s tightening grip kept him firmly in place more or less on the asshole’s lap. He could feel his chest gears moving faster, saw his eyes widening in terror in his reflection…

“Do you really think anyone would still miss you then, or even want you back,” Gene’s voice continued whispering in his ear tauntingly, “If they got a real good look at what you’ve been reduced to?”

Simmons’ breath was starting to come out in sharp, panicked breaths, “D—don’t…!”

Gene silenced his plea by maneuvering his head to press his lips against his. The kiss was crushing and suffocating given the anxiety still rushing over Simmons in waves, and he had to wrestle down the urge to vomit and gag when it was over, shuddering as Gene’s mouth began traveling down his neck.

This had started happening more and more now too, and Simmons realized that Gene kept at it because he knew just how much he despised it.

“You don’t need to worry about that anymore.” Gene assured him, “I know what you’re like, after all.”

_No you fucking don’t, you fucking—!_ Simmons’ thoughts were cut off when he felt the smirk against the crook of his neck.

“Simmons,” Gene said with a slight head tilt towards the mirror they were both now gazing at, one of them in disgust and the other rather gleefully, “Why don’t you smile for the camera?”

*****

Simmons woke up from a feverish dream with a start and a groan, trying not to wail out loud at finding himself still lying on his side on the concrete floor of the _“walk-in.”_

He had lost count of just how long he had been kept here. Sometimes the redhead barely had a sense of his own past, everything a muddy, jumbled up blur of his own and Gene’s thanks to the man’s love of hearing himself talk.

It probably didn’t help that a part of him was very actively trying as hard as he could to not think on everyone. He didn’t want all of his memories tainted, didn’t want them somehow dragged into this too. If he could not think about them, then Gene couldn’t poison everything. Maybe he wouldn’t twist it all around this time, maybe…

But, Simmons thought wryly and self-deprecatingly, he couldn’t even do _that_ fucking right, could he? He still remembered, still dreamed. Still let it all get as dirty and ugly as him.

Maybe Gene was right, and he did deserve this. After all, his family had always said he wasn’t going anywhere. He was dead weight to his friends, someone who was so pathetic that he couldn’t even say what he felt he needed to whenever it would be most crucial.

For some reason, today Simmons felt wet splashes hit the floor right in front of his face. The tears were coming at a blindingly fast pace, and he couldn’t get them to stop. Even after all this time, now it was like the floodgate had opened and he had no idea why.

He was fucking _crying_ when the door opened once again, and he hated himself even more because all of his efforts to try to not break down completely seemed to be well and truly wasted. To make things even more of a fucked up, pathetic mess, the tears kept flowing nonstop because he couldn’t use his hands to wipe them away since Gene had tied them behind his fucking back…!

His body was wrecked with sobs by the time Gene finally sauntered over, apparently immensely pleased by this turn of events as thoroughly as Simmons was cowed by them. Gene cooed gentle words at him as he gripped his shoulders and pulled Simmons up into a proper kneeling position in front of him.

Fingers smudged the tears along his face as Gene began regarding his handiwork up close, apparently unconcerned with the fact that Simmons was very much hyperventilating at the moment. His eyes traveled the length of Simmons’ body, taking in all of the marks there. Bruises, cuts, burns…everything he had inflicted.

The discolored hickeys were the most fresh. Gene had decided he liked Simmons’ reaction to them the best, how he would recoil and squirm before giving up and looking defeated, full of self-loathing whenever a new batch showed up.

“Good dream?” Gene asked before he shoved Simmons back against the wall. Hard.

The force cut off Simmons’ crying, his mouth open in pain when Gene gripped him by the hair sharply and forcefully kissed him.

He didn’t seem to mind much anymore that Simmons still fought against it, still looked disgusted and revolted whenever it happened. No, if anything, Gene was more amused at how often the redhead seemed to direct those negative reactions inward on himself these days. It was like a constant challenge for him now, one that Gene was determined to overcome.

_“SIMMONS!”_

Neither of them had expected the door suddenly opening, nor the desperate cry of Simmons’ name. In fact, Simmons was pretty certain through his hysterics that he had probably just hallucinated the whole thing.

Someone was violently ripping Gene away, and Simmons stood there in dumbfounded shock at the inexplicable destruction of what had felt like a very hopeless, inescapable routine. He certainly hadn’t expected anything like what he was seeing now, and he was still convinced that it couldn’t be real, that either he had finally completely lost it or this just was just a dream…

Because _Dexter Grif_ was standing in front of Simmons, with a glowering expression on his face as if he was ready to kill as he slammed Gene into the wall.

The orange-armored man wasn’t wearing his helmet for some stupid reason, and Simmons wanted to scold him for it, especially since Gene had brought his knife with him today and apparently had seen dream!Grif too because he was snarling as he drew the weapon, aiming for a dual-toned face…

Simmons moved with an energy and drive he had been quite certain, up until just then, that he would never have again. He pulled at the same time with both his arms, hearing a horrific _snap_ as his cybernetic arm broke free from the restraints at the cost of his now definitely broken flesh-and-blood arm.

The pain, terrible and blinding, came a moment after. His vision became blurry as a result, but shock and adrenaline kept him going. Maybe he had, most likely given everything, gone completely crazy.

But he wasn’t going to let Gene hurt Grif, or anyone else.

“Holy fucking shit! Simmons!” Grif was exclaiming again as the cyborg’s metal appendage was thrust in-between him and Gene, the knife embedding deep within it.

Electrical impulses of pain immediately started traveling throughout Simmons’ arm to the rest of him, but his motion continued undeterred until his elbow jabbed hard against Gene’s throat. There was a wet, choked gurgle and gasp as Gene sagged to the floor the second the pressure was off, fumbling around as if for another weapon.

A bullet pierced the cement ground right next to Simmons’ former captor in obvious warning, causing the still wheezing man to freeze.

Locus lowered his weapon through the shattered impact hole in the now broken mirror, “The detonation’s been set.” He stated dryly through his filtered helmet, “We should move.”

At that exact moment, the sheer spike of whatever it was that had been keeping Simmons upright seemed to vanish and he dropped to the ground himself. Dream or not, that had been at least a little worth it…right?

Except now he _really_ fucking hurt.

_“S—Simmons?”_

Grif, sounding really worried. Even his pain-numbed brain registered that, and Simmons felt guilty again at having caused that worry. He really was a shitty person, huh?

Dimly, he looked down at the knife embedded in his sparking forearm before his gaze traveled to the myriad shards of glass on the ground. He caught sight of splintered maroon in some of them and felt sick.

Simmons looked away, only to find Grif crowding into his swimming vision. The chubby man was saying something, his mouth set into an uncharacteristically grim line as he reached for Simmons, but the cyborg couldn’t hear what it was. Locus was there too, still monitoring Gene.

“S—sorry.” was all Simmons managed to desperately mumble out before he was crashing over and the world went black. No number of apologies was ever going to be enough for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can’t believe I wrote this and I feel SO BAD for poor Simmons now! *hugs him* But at least I managed to end on the rescue AND I gave Simmons the chance to give a little back after all the torment I put him through. Protective Simmons for the win!
> 
> I’m sorry that it took so long for me to post anything, but on the plus side this is by far the longest chapter I have ever done for a story. I kind of wanted to get all of the horribleness of Gene’s revenge plan out of the way in one foul swoop. So, even if typing this sucker up darn near killed me, I hope it was worth the wait! This took a turn so far out of my usual comfort zone that I can’t help but worry about how the chapter even comes across, but hopefully it wasn’t a terrible read even if it was extremely angst-ridden and dark.
> 
> The third and final chapter will be told primarily from Grif and Simmons’ POVs, and will focus on some much needed healing/comfort because…oh boy, do they need it now! So, expect some Lieutenant bonding, Grif sibling dynamics, the Reds and Blues trying to be a supportive family unit, Doctor Grey and Kimball telling folks what’s up because they care, Locus not sure how he got to play the part of awkward consoler, and (of course) some much-needed Grimmons moments! :D Hopefully it won’t be too disappointing of an ending at least. :)
> 
> Thank you so much for all of the awesome comments on the first chapter! I’m glad I decided to go outside my comfort zone a bit and experiment here, even if I’m still unsure of what the end result will be! :) Your support has been amazing! :D
> 
> Hope you all are enjoying the start of Season 16 as much as I am too! XD


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Pairings Beyond Grimmons:**  
>  ~Extremely one-sided/unhealthy Gene x Simmons  
> ~Potential Sarcus  
> ~Jensen x Palomo, because something cute and fluffy needed to happen darn it! XD  
> ~Bitthews, for pretty much the same reasoning. XD
> 
> **Other Notes for This Story:**  
>  ~One flashback of Simmons’ time in captivity and all of the inherent unpleasantness/uncomfortableness that contains.  
> ~Oh, look, I actually manage to write some absolutely consensual and healing physical intimacy in this part! Yay!  
> ~Understandably, there’s still quite a bit of angst and drama, but there’s also quite a bit of my horrible attempts at humor and fluff wherever I could sneak them in too. You’ve been warned! XD  
> ~Spoilers for Season 15.
> 
> Legal Disclaimer: I do not own _Red vs. Blue_ or any of the show’s characters. They are the rightful properties of Rooster Teeth.

Once, when Richard “Dick” Simmons was a young boy, he snuck into his parents’ bedroom to stare at himself in the large mirror they had in there.

The mirror was a rather intimidating piece of antique furniture that clashed with every other meticulously picked out piece in the room. It had been something of an heirloom, an inheritance from grandparents that Simmons hadn’t even known he had until the sudden announcement of their passing reached his ears.

His father was always quick to discuss their proud lineage of military accomplishments, but he’d been apparently less inclined to discuss the actual people who shared that heritage when it became clear that they didn’t mesh with his impossibly high personal standards.

Yet Simmons’ father had been rather adamant about retrieving the mirror and enshrining it at their house for the sake of appearance if not for sentimental value. Simmons’ mother remained just as adamant in her displeasure over the ghastly furniture, and little Simmons was left to wonder just what his grandparents might have been like.

The whole thing had resulted in his mother refusing to privately speak to his father for several days. Such a display would never fly while out in public, of course, as they had both mastered false smiles and dishonest displays of affection quite well. So, she sipped her three glasses of nightly wine in silent anger and the mirror remained.

Simmons pretended not to notice, praying that neither of his parents would turn their attention his way during their tense standoff. Both were always quick to voice their displeased opinions when it came to him instead in light of their inability to do so with one another, and Simmons didn’t appreciate being the target of their ire. His curiosity over the mirror that had caused so much derision had been piqued, however.

The redhead had just gotten another excellent grade on a paper in school that he hoped would somehow make up for his abysmal test scores. He had even felt rather proud because his teacher had praised him for the obvious effort he had put into crafting his essay.

But then the school bullies had cornered him for having pointed out their incorrect spelling of an insult on the bathroom wall, and Simmons was sent home with both another note and a black eye.

Simmons’ mother didn’t even glance the child’s way when he’d shown up for dinner. Pretended not to notice as he mumbled about his already completed homework. His father had cut into his nervous rambling with a customary disappointed tone to his voice as he stated that Simmons still hadn’t learned to throw a punch yet, and Simmons had excused himself from the table as quickly as he could just in case the older man decided to once again demonstrate his own personal technique. After all, Simmons already had a shiner.

The boy found himself staring up at his pitiful reflection, and his lips quivered as he felt tears threaten to spill. The redhead absolutely hated his reflection. What good was there in the hopeless person he saw staring back at him?

Neither of his parents bothered to rush into the room to see what the source of the subsequent crashing noise was. When they leisurely made their way in, they saw their son standing encircled by broken glass, his hand bleeding from a myriad collection of new cuts. His parents resigned themselves to their usual disappointment as Simmons tried to fearfully stammer out an explanation.

His mother simply stated that Simmons had best clean the whole thing up, and that it wouldn’t do for him to bleed on the rug. His father simply reprimanded him for wearing shoes upstairs in the house, and no one spoke about the damn mirror again.

*****

He had seriously left his horrible home and joined the army just to get stuck here in this totally different kind of hellhole? That’s what he used to think back in the crazy, incomprehensible days of Blood Gulch. Back then, frustrated by the sheer amount of insanity all around him as all of his efforts went absolutely fucking nowhere, Simmons’ fist found its way through several mirrors.

Donut was dismayed whenever he saw the damage, while Sarge would grumbled about the replacement paperwork that Simmons was always quick to guiltily fill out for him. Lopez would sigh in resignation when it became apparent that he had to put the new mirror in once it arrived.

But Simmons had learned how to better cover his tracks, and no one ever picked up on what was causing the damage. The going theory was that Blue Team had trained raccoons to throw rocks at reflective surfaces, which was both incomprehensible and impossible on so many different levels. But, like fuck if Simmons was going to correct Sarge.

Sometimes, Simmons noticed Grif regarding him not using his injured-but-always-well-concealed hand every so often, but whatever the heavier-set man thought about it, he thankfully didn’t say anything. Which Simmons was beyond grateful for. Really. Anyone finding out about that particular display of self-loathing from him was sure to make a really bizarre situation all the more awkward and weird.

But his good fortune on not having been found out yet on account of everyone’s ability to place the blame on a bunch of nonexistent, rock-hurling raccoons couldn’t possibly last forever.

The last time he had a mirror-punching incident in Blood Gulch, Simmons hadn’t been nearly as careful as he should have been. Granted, he was hardly ever in a good state of mind when the incidents occurred. Still, he hadn’t expected anyone to be awake at the hour this particular freak-out happened, especially not Grif given how adept the orange-armored soldier was at sleeping in general.

Grif had been standing perfectly still in the now open doorway of Red Team’s bathroom, not making a sound. Simmons wouldn’t have even noticed the chubby man had been there at all were it not for the fact that he had turned around shakily himself to cautiously glance over his shoulder out of force of habit.

Simmons couldn’t stop himself from letting out a stifled gasp in shock at having been found out. His eyes widened considerably, and he probably would have run for it if Grif hadn’t been blocking the only exit.

Simmons flinched in awkward, embarrassed shame, his whole body feeling as if it were on fire even as he remained frozen to the tile on the floor. Shards of broken glass surrounded him as blood dripped down his hand.

He expected some kind of shocked reaction in turn, maybe even an angry yell or a patronizing comment at his expense depending on Grif’s mood.

The blank, unreadable look that crossed over Grif’s face as he took in the scene was even more nerve-wracking than the looks of disgust and disappointment that Simmons’ parents had given him. The redhead swallowed, throat suddenly dry.

Grif looked up at his face then, his mismatched eyes boring into Simmons’ own without blinking. After what felt like an uncomfortable eternity, the tan-skinned man broke eye contact and stepped out of the room without so much as a word.

A dumbfounded Simmons simply stared after him, convinced that this was it and that Grif was going to tell Sarge and the others how crazy he was.

He did not expect Grif to return just a few minutes later, expression still very much guarded as he motioned for the maroon-wearing man to step closer with a med-kit in his other hand.

“Be careful of the glass.” Grif advised a still very shaky Simmons as the cyborg picked his way over the fragments towards him.

They were both sitting on the bathroom floor mere moments later in total silence, Simmons watching as Grif began taking care and bandaging up his injured hand that had settled onto his lap at some point. Simmons had started to protest when Grif had rested it there, tried to pull away because it would get blood on Grif’s pants, but Grif had held onto his wrist and glared at him. Grif treated the wounds with a surprising gentleness that Simmons wouldn’t have thought possible from him before.

Simmons only winced once throughout the whole thing, when a bit of splintered glass had to be removed from one of his knuckles. Both he and Grif muttered _“Sorry.”_ at the exact same time, making eye contact before awkwardly looking away.

Grif didn’t acknowledge what Simmons was really apologizing for, and Simmons could only mutely shake his head that Grif didn’t have anything to be sorry for then. His voice having abandoned him in this, surprisingly peculiar, horribly awkward, and yet altogether soothing moment.

Thankfully, Grif decided to not make any comments about what he had stumbled onto earlier. The lingering warmth from Grif’s touch remained for quite a few moments even after he had finished tending to Simmons’ cuts and scrapes. It lasted throughout his helping Simmons with cleaning up the mess too.

“Go get some shoes on.” Grif had advised quietly at first, “I really don’t want to be bandaging up a foot too.”

The whole experience had felt like some bizarre dream, and Grif fortunately chose not to ask why Simmons nearly cried at his words. He didn’t say a thing afterwards either, when Simmons had tentatively reached out with his wrapped up hand to grasp Grif’s own tenderly for just a moment more.

Both men opted to pretend that the reassuring squeezes they gave the other before parting ways for the night had never happened.

*****

Dexter Grif had never been a huge fan of hospitals. In fact, he had painstakingly tried avoiding them whenever he could growing up even if it always resulted in Kai mumbling about how much of a killjoy he was when she wanted to pull off some crazy stunt that was sure to lead to a broken bone or concussion.

Hospitals, in his eyes, had always represented failure. Usually _his_ , a symbol of his inability to prevent catastrophe from happening. A reminder of how too much had been heaped on his shoulders at too young an age.

Hospital visits meant well-intentioned but nosy nurses and doctors asking questions about whether he or Kai had an adult caretaker with them they could talk to. Led to questions about why their clothes were so threadbare or just why they hadn’t been at school that day or the previous one before it, about how there was still the matter of paperwork to fill out and just who was going to be billed for this visit.

Later, hospital trips meant that someone had gotten hurt or killed out on the field. They meant awkward visits or messages of condolences to way too young soldiers who had just lost a teammate equally way too much of a kid to be out in a firefight, of Simmons calling him a dumbass and both pretending they weren’t holding the other’s hand underneath blankets because they could have not seen the other again while the rest of the colorful idiots gathered around them pretended not to notice.

They meant feeling things he felt he didn’t deserve to dwell on, on how he just wasn’t good enough for that happiness he fucking craved.

The hospital room that Dexter Grif found himself in ever since Locus had dropped them back off on Chorus was sterile and cold. It reminded Grif so fucking much of why he hated hospitals. Yet, he couldn’t bring himself to just up and leave either.

…Because Simmons was lying in a hospital bed, and Grif was terrified of what would happen if he left the redhead. As if Simmons would somehow just magically up and vanish if he so much as went to the bathroom, as if the cyborg hadn’t been lying in an unconscious state ever since the rescue.

Simmons’ eyebrow furrowed slightly in his sleep, his mouth opened slightly with an exhale of air. Grif hoped he was at least having a good dream, but a part of him doubted that was the case given the torture room and condition they had found Simmons in. Grif hated himself more for even acknowledging that.

His desire to stay as close to the dozing cyborg as possible was the only reason he hadn’t joined Locus, Tucker, and Sarge in dropping that asshole Gene back into UNSC custody. Granted, Locus had pretty accurately surmised that Gene probably wouldn’t have survived the trip if Grif had joined them, especially once Gene had recovered enough from Simmons’ amazing and unexpected throat blow to smile crazily at the pair and remark on how he supposed he had at least ruined things in a way no one was sure to forget.

Honestly, him joining his murderous cohorts in jail felt like a copout, but Grif supposed Locus was right about justice needing to be properly meted out. Carolina’s words against revenge-killing had stuck in his head long enough to keep him from doing something stupid.

The most important thing to focus on now was that Simmons had been found. The maroon-wearing soldier was back on Chorus, he was being looked over and things could go back to…

Grif’s rambling thoughts trailed off as a heavy weight of something painful and indescribable settled in the pit of his still empty stomach. Was there any fucking way things would be all right again after all of this?

He looked down at Simmons’ still sleeping form, ignoring the pain in his back and shoulders from his hunched over posture.

Doctor Grey had said that Simmons remaining unconscious was most likely a defense mechanism due to all the stress he had been under thanks to his confinement and obviously weakened, feverish state. She said trying to force him to wake up at this point while his body was attempting to recuperate would only make things worse.

Grif could imagine what those days of captivity had been like after seeing the dead colony, of the _“home”_ that Gene had been keeping Simmons a prisoner in. Flashes of memories he would rather not recall came unbidden at the sight. That fucked-up room had haunted his waking hours ever since. It beat against his eyelids whenever he closed them.

Grif could imagine, could picture what Simmons had gone through in there, even as he fervently wished he couldn’t. He wanted desperately for there to be something he could do or say to make Simmons forget all of it too.

He had seen some of what Gene had done to Simmons, and had wanted to kill the asshole for it then and there. Yet he had somehow managed to fuck that up and Simmons had ended up getting even more messed up on account of him being good-for-nothing hate glue. Grif had seen the various tools and equipment, the restraints. He had overheard the hushed snippets of speculative conversation on the subject when the others didn’t think he was listening.

He had seen the myriad collection of marks that now decorated Simmons’ body. It had been hard not to, given his unfortunate state of undress when they had finally found the redhead. He saw the cuff marks from Simmons’ limbs and neck being bound so often, the telltale needle scar on his arm. Distinctive bruising, cuts, and burns that were starting to scar on freckled skin, the…

Bile rose in the back of his throat once more at the thought of what Gene had been doing to Simmons all that time. At just what Doctor Grey had theorized he had most likely been planning to do all along, at what Grif had seen when he had rushed down there that seemed to confirm her theory and…

He wiped at eyes that were once more very much burning, reaching out to grab Simmons’ now repaired cybernetic hand in his grip. His flesh-and-blood arm was still in its brace. Grif gave the cybernetic hand a squeeze to reassure himself that Simmons was still very much there.

_“Sorry.”_ Grif muttered hoarsely under his breath for what was most likely the hundredth time that day. It felt just as painfully inadequate as the last time he had said it, seeing Simmons like this…

He couldn’t help but wonder if the redhead would hate him when he finally came to. Because Grif had once again not been there when something truly terrible happened and someone he cared for had gotten hurt once more as a result. Because Grif had made things fucking worse by rushing in without a plan and Simmons had ended up with a broken arm on top of everything else.

Because Grif apparently only ever fucking took and was completely incapable of giving, doing, or saying enough back when it really mattered, even if he could have very easily lost Simmons all over again and that thought alone terrified him shitless.

When Doctor Grey finally decided to kick him out on the grounds that he didn’t want to make Simmons feel worse by seeing him in so pitiful a state, he went to the Reds and Blues’ temporary accommodations on Chorus and crashed in Simmons’ room again.

Man, he couldn’t even fucking worry correctly, apparently.

None of the others chose to comment on Grif’s actions, nor on how Grif pointedly seemed to visit the hospital again once Simmons had started to wake up only when his teammate was reportedly fast asleep.

Grif figured keeping his distance for the time being was maybe for the best, even if his whole being was screaming just the opposite. He’d be damned if he would make things worse for Simmons. He just wanted the fucking nerd to be okay.

*****

_Gene had just finished up with the altogether humiliating task of feeding his prisoner, Simmons once again fighting down the urge to recoil and vomit as he felt the other man’s hand patting his stomach as he told the redhead cheerfully about the latest recipe he had used from Cronut’s organic cook books._

_After he cleared away the plate, Gene checked Simmons’ body for sores due to having been stationary for so long. He pushed the redhead’s body forward somewhat in order to inspect his back more closely. Despite the sweltering heat, Simmons shivered as Gene’s fingers ghosted over his sweat-covered skin._

_Simmons had been chained against the back wall as per Gene’s preference, and the brown-haired Sim Trooper took the opportunity this provided to glance over at their reflections in the mirror. He tilted Simmons’ turned away head so that the cyborg had no choice but to do so as well._

_“If I ever happened to get bored here and decided to take a trip to Chorus in your armor,” Gene mused out loud, fingers both lingering on and digging into Simmons’ chin, “Do you think anyone would even notice?”_

_Simmons’ full gut began twisting again as a result of the direction the conversation seemed to be going, “Of—of course they would!” He stammered out, horrified._

_Not to mention, Simmons had been gone for how long, exactly, now? Questions were sure to arise about someone suddenly showing up in his armor after who-really-knew-how-long._

_“Really?” The asshole had the audacity to raise an eyebrow, “Because Tucker and your other buddies never seemed to be able to tell us apart even when I had the blue visor on to make it easier.”_

_Simmons fell silent. Gene wasn’t lying, now that he thought about it. He had been rather annoyed and frustrated by that himself considering how different he felt he and this jerk actually were._

_“Considering how Buckey could tell us apart even,” Gene continued in the wake of Simmons’ troubled silence, “That was just fucking sad.”_

_He grinned, tipping Simmons’ face towards the mirror again since his fingers had gone lax during his ramble and had given Simmons the chance to pull back and avert his gaze as best he could. The redhead winced at the sensation of pinched flesh that accompanied the action of his face being maneuvered against his will._

_“So long as I stay in the armor, it should be a perfect reflection.” Gene noted as he forced Simmons to look back at his gloating visage and his own pathetically helpless one staring back at them._

_“Th—they’d figure it out eventually.” Simmons finally got out through the squeezing pressure on his face, “You’d fucking slip up, and then_ someone _would…”_

_He trailed off, suddenly very certain that he did not want to finish the sentence out loud, let alone even think it. He wouldn’t let Gene goad him into thinking about the others, didn’t want to find them somehow tainted by even being brought up in such a place._

_Gene finally let go of his face to readdress the task of looking over his back, and the pleasant smile he had been wearing at having successfully taunted Simmons once more faltered and turned into a momentary frown, “You’re referring to that fat-ass Grif, right?” he asked in a dangerously deceptive, light tone._

_Simmons remained steadfastly silent, but that silence was just as damning and outright confirming as answering honestly probably would have been. Gene’s hands on his back suddenly stilled, and Simmons tried not to flinch and recoil at them remaining frozenly insufferable against his bare flesh._

_“I suppose he_ could _be more of a problem, given all of your bullshit conversations together,” and Simmons had to suppress the urge to protest about how none of their talks together could_ ever _be considered bullshit to him even if they weren’t the most productive ones out there, “But that just means I’d have to kill him quickly once I got there to get him out of the way, right?”_

_Gene leaned down again to whisper bemusedly in Simmons’ ear like he always seemed to enjoy doing just to torment him further, “If he hasn’t given up on you for being such an absent flake and disappointment yet, that is.”_

_Simmons shuddered, and he found he had no voice left to respond with. The last scenario that Gene had given him was horrible enough and something that terrified him every day. If Grif saw how worthless he truly was, then there was no fucking way he would even want to remain friends with him let alone whatever the fuck they were now. The idea of Gene tricking his friends and murdering Grif was just…_

_“D—don’t…” Simmons finally got out in a much weaker voice than he would like, and he felt ashamed once more that all he could do at this point was beg._

_Gene shushed him as he reached over to the syringe he had prepared earlier, apparently having decided that Simmons had stayed in that position long enough. He forced Simmons to stare at their joint reflections once more, his human eye watering up as the other man brought the needle to the pinprick scar on Simmons’ trembling arm._

_“It was just an idea I’d been mulling over, Simmons. You shouldn’t worry.” Gene informed him in a patronizingly gentle tone after he had finished with the injection._

_One of his hands came to rest on the top of Simmons’ head, his fingers playing rather roughly with the coppery strands there as they both waited for the drugs to take effect, “So long as taking care of you keeps me busy here, all of your little dumbass friends are perfectly safe to live out the rest of their pointless lives without us.”_

Simmons woke up with a start once more, his entire body seizing up in panic before his mind was finally able to register that he was still in the hospital room on Chorus.

“Whoa there!” Doc’s surprised voice came from off to the side, and the redhead turned to glance at the purple medic who had apparently been startled from his staring out of the window, “I didn’t expect you’d be up again so soon, fella.”

…Right. Doc had accompanied Carolina, Kai, and both of Grif’s lieutenants Matthews and Bitters on a visit here earlier. Simmons had gotten sleepy and so the others had excused themselves to let him rest.

But if Doc was still here, then…

The medic rubbed the back of his brown head of hair sheepishly, letting out a slight laugh, “I don’t think they remembered that I had gone to use the bathroom.” Doc explained.

Simmons’ face flushed, feeling both sorry for Doc since he had come to visit him too and for having startled the other man before, “S—sorry.” He murmured with a still rather hoarse voice, “I—”

“Hey, it’s all right! I’m used to it by now, and it’s actually gotten better, believe it or not. They’ll probably even say sorry for it the next time I see them.” Doc smiled reassuringly down at him before a gentle, considering sort of look crossed over his face, “Though speaking of that, you’ve been apologizing a lot since you came back, you know.”

Simmons felt his face heat up at the statement, “I—I know.” He muttered, looking down at his cybernetic hand resting on top of the bedsheet and trying not to think about his other arm itching any in its snug brace (although once he got that thought in his head it was impossible to stop), “But…”

He trailed off, closing his eyes. He felt like he had so much to apologize for, and that he would never be able to do so enough. Putting everyone through what he had, on account of his own ineptitude and…

“It’s okay, Simmons.” Doc moved to sit down on one of the chairs gathered messily around his bedside, “There’s nothing you need to apologize for.”

“B—but…” Simmons trailed off, resisting the burning sensation in his green eye as he forced a shaky smile onto his face, “Thanks, Doc.”

It was weird to say, and he still felt like he had done something wrong, but he felt like he should try to repay the thoughtful gestures of his friends all the same even if he woefully sucked at it.

Doc blinked in surprise at the comment, and then he smiled brightly, “No problem.”

Simmons’ eyes glanced over to the empty chair that was always the closest to him, the one that everyone had declared belonged to Grif despite his having never sat in it while Simmons was awake. The cyborg turned back to Doc’s patient gaze and wracked his brain to come up with something else to say that wouldn’t be too terribly awkward.

He was saved from having to do so for the moment by Doctor Grey entering, a knowing look on her face as she took in the scene before her, especially the still very much displaced and ruffled up bedding all around her patient.

“Bad dream?” Grey asked gently, and Simmons could only nod mutely in response.

Doc got up to pour him a glass of water from a nearby pitcher after offering another friendly smile and pat on the shoulder. Simmons had only learned to not flinch at the sight of the pitcher once he began to calm his mind down with the realization that no one was going to force the liquid down his throat and he could choose when and how much he drank from actual cups again.

Simmons listened to Doctor Grey’s soothing tone as she tried once again to bring up the topic of starting therapy sessions sometime soon until he drifted off back to sleep.

*****

Grif’s teeth were grinding painfully against one another in his mouth as he reacted to what he had just heard. His back arched uncomfortably in his seat and his hands clenched tightly into fists at his sides. He felt the worrying gazes of both Dylan and Tucker on his person just then, but he wasn’t really in the mood to acknowledge them.

“What the fuck do you mean that the UNSC wants to keep all the details about the Blues and Reds under wraps?” Grif somehow managed to get out in a dangerously low growl.

The dark-skinned woman sitting across from the three of them at her presidential desk let out a small sigh, seemingly nonplussed at the anger being thrown her way. Vanessa Kimball had met with a lot of disgruntled people in her lifetime so far, and she had no doubt learned to tell when the displeasure wasn’t really directed towards her.

“It means exactly what it sounds like it does.” Kimball explained coolly, though an apologetic glimmer flashed through her dark eyes all the same, “There are evidently several classified cases against the group, and they do not wish to reveal much about their investigations into them pending trial.”

“You’re fucking kidding me.” Tucker intoned incredulously from his spot next to Grif, “Even after everything those murderous assholes did?”

“It’s unfortunately par the course for lengthier UNSC investigations.” Dylan, who had been silent up until then, explained with a soft sigh of her own, “Beyond having your names cleared, this is the best we can hope for.”

Which was all well and good, but…

“Even that asshole Gene?” Grif practically spat out.

The two women both looked at one another, Dylan being the one to reluctantly nod after a few moments of uncomfortable silence.

Grif glared at a spot over Kimball’s head, his fingernails digging into the palms of his hands enough to draw blood, “Then we should have brought his worthless ass back to Chorus.”

Not knowing how that fucker was going to be punished after what he had put _Simmons_ , put all of them through, was infuriating.

“Yes,” Kimball agreed quietly after a few tense moments of silence had passed by in her office, “That would have been the best course of action instead of dropping him off at the UNSC’s doorstep if you had wanted to know what his fate would be.” Her tone was quite serious as she added rather knowingly, “You would have had to explain just how you had gotten the ship to track him down though.”

Grif and Tucker both glanced at one another rather nervously. They had kept quiet on Locus’ involvement in order to not only protect their new reluctant ally, but to avoid upsetting Kimball and the other citizens of Chorus who would no doubt still be understandably upset with the guy, currently reformed or not.

“Uh, no comment.” The dark-skinned man in teal finally muttered.

Kimball rolled her eyes at the altogether painfully obvious deflection by Tucker, “You’re going to have to talk about it eventually, you know.” She stated pointedly.

Grif looked away as Tucker pretended to whistle loudly. Kimball shot him an unreadable look, and for a moment Grif suspected that she already fucking knew about Locus’ involvement. It wouldn’t be a shock, given her partnership with Santa. She probably just wasn’t pressing the matter on account of not being sure how she felt about it all yet. He could understand her conflicted feelings.

Not that Grif really cared either way as he understood both sides of the matter. So long as no one tried killing the other, they were free to think and feel however they wanted. It was a good philosophy to hold in general.

“So,” Grif finally said at length to cut off Tucker’s over the top antics and to get himself the fuck out of the meeting following that last bit of disappointing news, “Is that fucking it then?”

“No, it isn’t.” Kimball admitted as she relaxed in her seat and her usually hardened expression softened to one of genuine concern, “How has Captain Simmons been doing? I feel awful that I haven’t had the chance yet to visit with him for too long, but I’ve heard from Doctor Grey that he’s about to get the all-clear to leave the hospital.”

Grif’s stomach dropped at the unintentional reminder of his own lack of visits to the nerd’s bedside recently, and he looked down at the ground with a frown forming on his face. He pointedly ignored Dylan’s questioning gaze his way, praying that the journalist wouldn’t comment on it.

Tucker cleared his throat to get everyone’s attention focused on him, “You heard right.” He informed Kimball, “And you should totally go and visit him at the residence later. I bet he’d appreciate it.”

…Or have a major freak-out over the president of an entire fucking planet taking time out of her busy schedule just to personally see how he was doing, Grif thought wryly, unable to prevent the corners of his mouth from curving upwards slightly at the imagined scene. Either way, odds were good that the cyborg would be so touched by the gesture that he would probably start crying much to his own embarrassment.

Kimball smiled softly at the suggestion, giving a slight nod of her head, “I’d like to.” She stated sincerely, “It’s wonderful that he’s been recovering so well.”

The _“even though there is still understandably a long ways to go”_ was heavily implied all the same in the stifling, awkward silence that followed her remark.

Grif clenched his fists even tighter, trying to ignore the growing sense of guilt, regret, and fear that was building up inside of him. The anger at himself and others was always so much easier to fixate on instead.

“I gotta go.” was all he said as he stood up and marched woodenly out of the room, ignoring the bewildered looks thrown his way.

*****

There were no mirrors in the hospital room he was currently resting in.

Simmons was grateful for that as he looked around once more before focusing on his current guests. He had a sneaking suspicion that was Doctor Grey’s doing after he had mumbled something about reflections in a sleep-tinged delirium.

He knew he wasn’t going to be able to avoid such things forever, but not having to dwell on them for at least a little while longer helped him remain more at ease for the moment if nothing else.

Seeing everyone again had been excruciatingly hard at first, as Simmons at times had honestly thought he was still dreaming the whole rescue had even happened. For a time, he found himself battling a keen, unwavering sense of shame and dread at their visiting him at all, as if he wasn’t worthy of their concern or effort, as though he would somehow pollute them or they would confirm just how pathetic he was with one dismissive glance.

He still battled with that sometimes, though he always felt immensely relieved and touched by their continued visits and attempts to cheer him up.

Like right now, when the engaged young couple of Katie Jensen and Charles Palomo had stopped by to see him.

Palomo had visited separately before with Tucker and Washington, and Jensen had been by at least three times prior with Volleyball and the rest of Maroon Team, but apparently Jensen thought it was important to visit again once they had gotten footage from the bridal shower and bachelor party back from Jax’s extensive editing. Jax had indeed taken out any film evidence of Carolina’s change of shoes, which Simmons couldn’t help but smile somewhat at.

While the shower had ended disastrously for Simmons due to his abduction, seeing himself from earlier that day as well as so many of his friends and allies enjoying themselves was a lovely thought all the same.

Jensen and Palomo were sitting closely together side-by-side next to Simmons’ bed, peering over his shoulder as the video played out on the pad resting on his lap. Every so often, Jensen would pause it to explain what was happening at a given point, Palomo interjecting at parts she wasn’t as familiar with.

The excited, happy tones they both used and the fond smiles they cast one another’s way had Simmons smiling slightly too, and he was happy to indulge their storytelling endeavors by asking questions or remarking on something, such as Palomo fleeing from his own party for a moment in outright terror following Donut’s combined _“the talk”_ and lap dance routine, a scene that amused Jensen to no end while a blushing, wobbly-voiced Palomo weakly laughed and said it was good he could smile about it at all now even though it still terrified him.

After a few moments, Simmons thought of something and frowned, “How did Jax manage to be at two places at once?” He asked.

If he was remembering things correctly, hadn’t both events been at roughly the same time?

“Oh, he wasn’t!” Palomo informed him cheerfully, “He somehow found out that Matthews had kept a video blog at some point, so he conned him into filming mine.”

“Half of the footage he had to edit out because it was just of Bitters rolling his eyes and giving everyone the finger.” Jensen told the redhead matter-of-factly.

“Which, in hindsight, he probably should have seen coming because that was pretty much exactly what Matthews’ blog consisted of.” Palomo continued, “It wasn’t incredibly popular.”

Simmons smiled as it was all too easy to envision. No one found the angry Bitters quite as fascinating as Matthews did.

Jensen’s cheerful expression faltered a moment later, however, as she glanced down at the video pad and then at her hands. Her voice was rather watery when she spoke up again, not looking at either Simmons or Palomo, “Sir, I—I’m really sorry that I didn’t realize you were missing until later!” She blurted out quickly, tan face flushed and brown eyes looking rather teary.

Simmons wondered how long she had been keeping that bottled up, his symbolic heart-gear going out to the young brunette as he felt a spike of guilt at her being so upset on his behalf.

Palomo frowned as he reached out and pulled his fiancée close against his own shoulder, a notable look of regret on his usually carefree features too, “Yeah, and I’m just…I’m just really sorry that I had convinced her it was probably due to bathroom issues at first.”

Now a tidal wave of guilt washed over Simmons at the sudden, unexpected onslaught of apologies from the couple. Both of them should be happy and preparing for what was supposed to be the best day of their still quite young lives, and yet here they were wasting time feeling miserable on his behalf instead.

He _did_ seem to have a gift for ruining things, huh?

Simmons forced himself to give them both an encouraging and sincere smile, “I’m just grateful that what happened didn’t end up ruining the events themselves then.” The two younger lieutenants-turned-police-officers glanced over at him doubtfully, but he continued before they could try and protest with a regretful look of his own crossing over his features, “I’m really sorry that you had to postpone the wedding due to the search.”

“You…you really shouldn’t be, Captain Simmons, sir!” Jensen stated quite emphatically, leaning forward to grab his metallic hand in a reassuring grip, “Getting married wouldn’t have felt right with you being missing!”

“Yeah!” Palomo was quick to chime in with an earnest nod of his head, “Not to mention that we had totally staged the bouquet toss for you and Captain Grif!”

Simmons quickly alternated between blushing due to how touched he was at the pair’s declarations and his brain breaking at Palomo’s abrupt reveal, “Wh—what?” He murmured out loud.

Jensen shot the dark-skinned young man a rather pointed look that he in turn smiled sheepishly at before she turned to smile back at Simmons, “We’re really glad to have you back, sir. Honest!”

Simmons felt his green eye starting to tear up at such a genuine admission he was still more than halfway convinced he probably didn’t deserve, “I’m just relieved that you’re still getting the chance.” He muttered, remembering Gene’s threat about the wedding and being unable to suppress a shudder at the particularly unpleasant memory.

The two glanced at one another curiously, but given the troubled grimace that momentarily clouded Simmons’ features they apparently decided to not pry any further. Simmons was immensely thankful for that.

A hesitant Palomo cleared his throat after a few minutes and raised his hand in the air as if asking a question in school, “Um, sir? How come Captain Grif isn’t here with you?”

“Charlie!” Jensen admonished in a low tone.

“But he hadn’t left the hospital even once when they brought him in!” Palomo didn’t quite catch on to Jensen’s warning, and so the befuddled young man chose to evidently dig his grave deeper.

Jensen glanced nervously over at her former captain, the admission catching him completely off-guard and leaving his mind rather blank. He hadn’t seen Grif at all since he had woken up at the hospital, even though apparently he had been there before so much that the other Reds and Blues had reserved a seat for him right at Simmons’ bedside.

His stricken expression must have shown on his face because Palomo blanched, “S—sorry!”

Simmons shook his head to reassure the teal-trimmed young man that he hadn’t done anything wrong, “Grif’s always hated hospitals, so he probably just didn’t want to be in one any longer than necessary.” He said shakily, “S—so…”

The two lieutenants shared a concerned look at one another over their shoulders, and Simmons gave a watery smile at the sight. They really were a good match together, and he hated that he had worried them.

“Sorry.” Simmons mumbled again, his apologies feeling wholly inadequate still.

Palomo offered a nervous smile back, and Jensen reached over to place a comforting grip on Simmons’ shoulder as he tried to sniffle discretely.

*****

Simmons was sitting nervously in the wheelchair that Doctor Grey insisted he remain in until out of the hospital _(“Sorry, but rules are rules!”)_ , waiting for the others to come pick him up.

He squirmed and fidgeted uncomfortably in the civilian clothes that Donut and Doc had brought over for him, the two having somehow managed to keep their shocked exclamations soft at the time when he had asked why everything had to match for his sake, finding it rather bizarre to be fully clothed again.

He would rather not dwell on the forced nakedness that Gene had made him endure, or how embarrassingly slow getting used to even the hospital gown afterwards had been.

While he was in several respects rather glad that he was finally going to be able to go outside again, that he would be able to move around as much as he wanted and observe people being well and _alive_ in a rebuilding, thriving environment, a part of Simmons was absolutely fucking terrified about what he would experience out there too. The looks of pity he would probably receive, the looks of disgust…

Maybe Grif had realized just how much of a messed-up bullet he had managed to dodge through this whole experience, and that was why the orange-armored soldier was reluctant to see him now. Simmons couldn’t blame him if that were the case, and he closed his eyes and let out a shaky breath as Gene’s taunting remarks about how maybe everything between Grif and Simmons had always mattered more to the redhead than to Grif came rushing back…

“Simmons.”

He started at the gruff voice that spoke up directly in front of him then, nearly jumping out of his seat at the intimidating sight of a fully armored Locus.

Locus raised a hand up in what appeared to be an attempt at a calming gesture even as it was clear he wasn’t used to it, taking a small step forward as he did so, “Are you all right?” He asked the cyborg.

Simmons relaxed a fraction, though all the gears and organs in his chest were doing double-time on account of the surprise. He tried to play it cool, though he failed miserably at it, “I…I’m okay.” He somehow managed to get out, blushing slightly as he remembered when he had last seen the former mercenary, “Th—thank you for the save.”

His sentiment in that regard was more than he could ever hope to put into words, so it ended up feeling ridiculously hollow and inadequate. Still though, Locus didn’t seem to mind.

“I’ll be staying on Chorus for a few days at Sarge’s…” Locus seemed to ponder over his next word extremely carefully, “Surprising insistence that I do so to remain on the _‘downlow.’_ ” Locus was probably making a face underneath his helmet in regards to that particular word choice, “I didn’t want to surprise you by appearing unexpectedly in the building once you returned.”

Despite his nervousness still around the former mass murderer, Simmons couldn’t help but raise a perplexed eyebrow at Locus’ statement, “How is showing up unexpectedly in the hospital any better, exactly?”

The towering man in steel and green armor actually fidgeted and awkwardly coughed in response to his query, apparently having not thought of that himself until just then, “I asked Doctor Grey to allow me to speak to you privately here before you were discharged.” He admitted quickly to cover up his embarrassment, “She wasn’t exactly thrilled by my request, but she agreed.”

Simmons frowned, confused as to just why Locus would want to talk to him of all people privately.

Locus stared at him evenly from within the confines of his helmet, not wasting a moment, “I destroyed the footage.”

His brain froze at the flat admission from the other man.

Simmons swallowed dryly, his mind suddenly racing back to that horrible, fucked-up place and Gene smugly telling him all about the surveillance feed. He was going to be sick.

Locus regarded the color draining from the flesh and blood portion of his face before he carefully chose his next words, “You knew that he had been filming you.”

Simmons shakily nodded, finding it hard to breathe at the moment, “He…he told me.” He finally managed to get out as he fought down the bile that threatened to come up the more he spoke about it, “S—said he would send it out, that—”

…That once everyone saw what he had been reduced to, no one would ever want to find him. He closed his eyes and shuddered.

“Well, he didn’t.” Locus told him rather emphatically in way of assurance as he looked away from the still panicking Simmons rather tensely, “I thought that I should let you know.”

“Th—thank you.” Simmons’ mind quickly jumped from immense gratitude at the unexpected attempt at kindness from the reformed mercenary to another horribly distressing thought and he looked up at Locus with rather wild, terrified eyes, “The others…d—do they know?” He asked him with looming trepidation, “ _Grif_ …Grif was there and…!”

Simmons trailed off helplessly, slumping in the wheelchair.

If Grif had seen everything, no wonder he hadn’t come by to see him. His still human eye burned at the thought, and he felt the panic rise up the more he pondered that scenario.

“I don’t believe so.” Locus said at length, “Grif was so focused on the element of surprise in order to get to you that I doubt he took much notice of the equipment then.”

Simmons felt immensely relieved, his whole body falling back even further against the wheelchair. Thank fuck he had put the brakes on the thing beforehand.

“But he is surprisingly observant.” The former mercenary spoke up again, his tone soft and hesitant as if he knew he was about to deliver some very unpleasant news, “Given your condition, I suspect Grif and the others are more than capable of piecing together what happened.”

Dread hit him all at once again. He knew the truth behind Locus’ words all too well. He had seen it lingering in their expressions when people thought he wasn’t looking, heard it in hitched or whispered voices.

That was probably why Grif didn’t want to see him too.

He wasn’t sure when his entire body first became wrecked with shuddering sobs, wasn’t aware at all of Locus awkwardly and rather hesitatingly placing a consoling hand on his shoulder as if afraid in trying to comfort the redhead he might somehow ultimately make things worse. The gesture was a kind one though.

“I thought you said you wanted to talk to my patient this way to somehow _lessen_ upsetting him!” Doctor Emily Grey exclaimed rather protectively a second later as she burst onto the scene.

Despite how upset he still was, Simmons couldn’t help but feel a small tinge of amusement even through his tears at just how quickly the smaller woman who held a non-combative role made Locus jump as if a Mantis was going to fire at him. He knew he would never be able to thank them enough for trying to help.

*****

Grif played around with the food on his plate, pushing the calorie-heavy, grease-laden offerings to one side and then the other. He hadn’t spoken so much as a word since he had caught his two lieutenants leaving their shared apartment together, asking Bitters and Matthews if they wanted to check out this restaurant he had been hearing a shit-ton of praise about if he paid for all of their meals.

Their residence was close to their place of work at the police station and a bunch of restaurants, not that Bitters would ever admit that was the reason he had picked it out. Matthews had seemed ecstatic at the offer from the former captain he still adored, while Bitters had looked dubious. But, their limited food budgets had left little room for debate on the matter of free grub.

Upon arriving at the restaurant, Grif had fallen sullen and silent. He couldn’t help but remember that, after the maroon-wearing man had read reviews for the restaurant on a tourist site, Simmons had been the one to recommend it on account of Grif’s fondness for all things fried. It was still hard to believe Chorus had a tourist site, but maybe people enjoyed former war zones for vacation.

Remembering Simmons’ recommendation caused Grif to also remember that he had come up with this brilliant _“stuffing himself senseless”_ plan because he was still being an avoidant asshole scared shitless of seeing Simmons after his hospital release.

It was bad enough that he hadn’t worked up the nerve so see the kiss-ass conscious. How could he justify running into him again after all of that?

If there was one thing both Grif and Simmons excelled at, it was avoiding coming face-to-face with their issues until the last possible moment. He used to be rather proud of that skill, but now? Now he absolutely fucking hated it.

“Um, Captain Grif, sir?” Matthews’ tentative, customary suck-up voice spoke up just then, “Is everything okay?”

At first, the orange-armored soldier thought he could simply ignore the yellow-trimmed young man, but then Bitters interjected his own thoughts into the unexpected conversation: “Yeah, you’re not stuffing your face and it’s kind of freaking us the fuck out.”

Ah, the customary insult wrapped around concern. Bitters never strayed too far from his maverick ways.

Just as Matthews turned to lightly reprimand his teammate for that in his true junior kiss-ass fashion, an all-too familiar voice cut into their dialogue, “Oh, that’s just because Dex is being a big baby and doesn’t want to be there when the gray nerd gets home.”

Grif glared up at Kaikaina Grif, his little sister remaining far from impressed by the gesture as she stared him down with hands on her hips, “Shove it, Kai.”

She stuck her tongue out before plopping down heavily in the booth seat next to his two bewildered lieutenants, “Make me, bitch.”

“Wait a minute. Captain Simmons is being discharged today?” Matthews asked, looking shocked at the news, “But I haven’t finished getting everyone to sign his Get Well card yet!”

“Relax,” Bitters sighed as he grabbed Matthews’ arm reassuringly, “We’ll just send it to the Reds and Blues’ place later.”

The auburn-haired young man smiled thankfully at Bitters’ gesture before fixing quite a regretful look over at Grif, “I’m so sorry we kept you from being there, sir!” He wailed out apologetically.

“Er…” Grif fidgeted in the side of the booth that he had commandeered all for himself. Normally, he would be all for someone else taking the blame for his actions, but now he just felt annoying guilt about it.

Guilt that intensified when Bitters rolled his eyes, “Matthews, he invited us out first, remember? Even though he probably knew about the whole discharge thing already.” The dark-skinned lieutenant threw an incredulous look Grif’s way just as Matthews shot him a rather curious one, the _“What the fuck are you doing?”_ readily apparent in Bitters’ regard of his former captain.

It was quite similar to the one that Kai was _still_ throwing his way, “You know I’m right, Dex.” She pointedly said, no longer hiding her anger.

Grif frowned but didn’t respond verbally to her comment. It wasn’t like he could actually deny what she said since his little sister _was_ scarily observant whenever she wanted to be, and that was usually whenever it was wholly inconvenient for him.

Kai’s hardened, annoyed expression softened to concern at the obvious signs of regret and stress she probably saw marring her brother’s dual-toned facial features. She reached over to gently grasp his fork-holding hand in her own, the pale skin from the appendage that had once belonged to Simmons contrasting greatly with her own tanned skin.

“What happened was beyond fucked up, but it _wasn’t_ your fault, you dumbass,” Kai quietly informed him, “And trying to avoid the nerd hasn’t been doing either of you any favors.”

The perpetual frown that had been on Grif’s face for way longer than he liked to think on only deepened as he wondered just when it was that his party-crazy sibling had gone all fortune cookie level wise on his ass. The chubby man knew she was right, even if that notion _still_ scared him shitless.

But still, what had happened to Simmons scared him shitless too. What if he wasn’t strong enough to truly help the redhead? What if he just somehow made things worse like he always did? He didn’t want Simmons to get hurt ever again. He couldn’t…!

As if sensing Grif’s thoughts reaching a panicked crescendo in his skull, Kai gave his hand a reassuring squeeze and smiled warmly before letting go. Just like he had done for her when they had been little and something had gotten her upset. Then, she promptly turned to his two lieutenants and smirked knowingly at them, “Come on! You dweebs know I’m right or what, huh?”

Matthews and Bitters glanced cautiously from Kai to Grif and then back towards one another, both men quick to counter with a rushed _“No comment!”_ before they made a hasty retreat from the suddenly very emotional scene.

Grif had never been as proud of them as he was in that fucking moment.

*****

Andersmith and Caboose carried the overnight supplies that Simmons would need into Donut’s bedroom. The cyborg kept trying to explain that he was perfectly capable of bringing his things there himself to deaf ears.

Even an over-preparer like Simmons thought that they had gone a little overkill in packing what they considered the essentials, such as the teddy bear that Caboose had given him once as a _“sorry for nearly shooting you”_ gift while they had been out training their squads. Simmons was still not sure where _“Cuddles”_ had come from, but he never had the heart to throw the tie-dye plush away since Caboose loved seeing it on his desk whenever he visited.

“Nonsense, sir!” Andersmith stated cheerfully when Simmons attempted to protest a fifth time, “I’m happy to help since Captain Caboose invited me.”

“Yes,” Caboose intoned seriously as he dropped the duffle bag he’d been carrying onto the massive mound of blankets and pillows on the floor, “Smith is good company. Plus, he builds the best campfires!”

Lopez, from his trying to be as small and inconspicuous as possible spot in the corner of the room, let out what was probably the most dramatic sigh a robot could make.

“Conseguiré el extintor más tarde.” _{“I’ll get the fire extinguisher later.”}_

“Thank you, sir!” Andersmith beamed proudly at the praise, “It is an honor to see one of your team bonding exercises up close!”

Both Simmons and Lopez looked at one another incredulously as Caboose sagely nodded, “Yes, sleepovers are important things for friends to do.” He lowered his voice a second later to add, “They do not just happen because Doc and Freckles say I snore.”

Right. Doc had tried politely mentioning that Caboose snored when discussing his temporary roommate situation once before while visiting at the hospital. Truth be told, it was more bizarre to find out that Freckles evidently had a nightly routine that was also disturbed by the blond’s snoring. He imagined that whatever that routine was, it probably fell into a _“the less you know, the better”_ category.

“It should be fun.” Simmons stated at length, forcing a reassuring smile onto his face before turning to nod in Donut’s direction, “Thanks again for letting me sleep over tonight, Donut.”

A part of the maroon-wearing man had been rather terrified at the prospect of sleeping by himself in his own room. Usually at the hospital, whenever a particularly bad dream or memory occurred, Doctor Grey or one of the other doctors or nurses seemed to stop by like clockwork to distract him. Simmons wasn’t sure how he would cope if he woke up in a panicked state all by himself, even if admitting that left him feeling all sorts of inept and pathetic.

Donut smiled and jumped up from where he’d been sitting on his bed with all of the energy his years of claimed dance and musical practice allowed, patting the cyborg jovially on the back, “It’s no problem at all, Simmons!” The dirty blond assured him, “I’m always ready and willing to let my fellow man crash in my hole as many times as it takes!”

“Er…” Simmons felt his face go red at his pink-armored teammate’s particular wording as he struggled to come up with a response, “Thanks?”

Donut’s smile turned into an outright grin, “Caboose, Andersmith, and Lopez are sticking around tonight, which should make things all the merrier too! Being with so many guys at once is a surefire way to scream out with delight!”

Simmons’ mind went blank while oblivious Caboose clapped his hands together excitedly, “Oh, a screaming contest!” The blue-wearing man exclaimed.

Andersmith, meanwhile, frowned contemplatively, “My voice is always too deep to win those.” He lamented.

“Deep voices just make for deep throats, my friend!” Donut said in way of trying to cheer up the blue-trimmed lieutenant.

“En serio, me estoy quedando solo para los primeros juegos de fiesta y luego estoy fuera.” _{“I am seriously only sticking around for the first few party games and then I am out.”}_

“I’m rather surprised Grif didn’t volunteer to join in,” Carolina spoke up from behind a growing smirk from the open doorway where she’d been observing the rather amusing scene with arms crossed, “Since you roped Wash into helping make snacks and all.”

The former Freelancer seemed to realize her mistake when she saw Simmons’ face take on a stricken note. There was an apologetic gleam in her green eyes as Donut cleared his throat following his own nervous glance at the cyborg, “Well, five _is_ a bit of a crowd for these sized rooms.” He stated quickly, “So even though I’d personally love cramming as many guys into this tight space as I can…”

“Ah. Right.” The cyan-wearing woman tilted her head to the side, “Sorry about that.” Carolina glanced back behind her at the next door over, “Since he’s been practically living in Simmons’ room, I’d just assumed…”

Realizing she’d only dug herself in further, Carolina trailed off and gingerly closed her hand over Simmons’ shoulder in an awkward attempt at comfort. He smiled at the gesture, though his mind was whirring over what she had said.

Was that the real reason Donut and the others hadn’t wanted him to step inside his own room yet, because he would have been able to tell right away that Grif had been there recently?

“Well, yeah,” Donut smiled anxiously at Simmons, “But that was just because of the rat infestation in his room.”

“Mierda.” _{“Bullshit.”}_

Caboose sighed, “If they had let me catch one, I would have named it Snickers.”

Andersmith nodded his head, “An excellent name choice, Captain Caboose!”

“But Grif wouldn’t let me check it out.” The blond-haired man continued sadly, as if he hadn’t heard Andersmith’s praise.

“¡Eso es porque él obviamente estaba mintiendo ya que aquí nadie habla de sus jodidos sentimientos!” _{“That's because he was obviously lying since no one here ever talks about their fucking feelings!”}_

Donut patted Caboose on the shoulder consolingly before offering Simmons a rather apologetic look “Sorry for not telling you before, Simmons. We just assumed you wouldn’t mind since it was Grif and all.”

Of course not, why would he mind? The two had pretty much been sharing both of their rooms already. It wasn’t as if Grif hadn’t needed a place to crash in since he had been uncomfortable doing so at the hospital.

“Of…of course I don’t mind. It isn’t like I’ve been using it myself, right?” Simmons’ voice came out far too pained-sounding and high-pitched. He winced and laughed nervously to try and cover it up, but failed miserably.

Lopez shook his head, while Donut bit his bottom lip and looked away to give Simmons some small shred of dignity. Caboose was holding onto Cuddles tightly and the cyborg was halfway convinced the toy bear would be shoved into his arms a second later.

Carolina and Andersmith both looked rather nervous themselves, unsure of what exactly to say. The redheaded female tentatively patted Simmons’ shoulder, apparently having an inward debate as to whether or not to say _“there, there”_ as she did so if the furrowing of her eyebrows was any indication. She quickly dropped her hand when Sarge and Washington joined the fray, Sarge apparently taking mercy on his maroon subordinate and trying to defuse the situation.

“That’s the spirit, son!” Sarge informed Simmons emphatically, and Simmons nearly wanted to kick himself for the slight elation that small amount of praise gave him, “You can just kick that orange-wearing dirtbag freeloader out whenever you want to, rats or not rats!”

“¡Nunca hubo ratas!” _{“There were never any rats!”}_

“You guys will have to catch him first though! The bitch is fast when he wants to give someone the slip.” Kai called loudly from somewhere down the hall.

Sarge looked away for a moment, coughing uncomfortably, “Though I’m sure even he is glad you’re back with us, Simmons. Just like the rest of us.”

It was nearly so low that Simmons couldn’t hear it, but his green eye watered up all the same at the sincerity in the older man’s words. He knew how difficult it was for Red Team’s leader to say that sort of thing in general. “Th—thank you, sir!” The cyborg managed to get out, clearly touched.

“Hey, crazy old guy!” Kai suddenly shouted out to Sarge again, “What’s the deal with the hot mercenary hanging out in your room? Have you called dibs yet or what?”

“I am going out.” Locus’ response to Kai’s inquiry was quite loud and to-the-point.

Sarge harrumphed, muttering _“Dang-nab-it!”_ under his breath with an odd bit of red suddenly coloring his cheeks.

Washington took the opportunity to pointedly clear his throat, “Anyone want hot chocolate?”

An amused Carolina raised an eyebrow, “And here I was thinking you had forgotten that you volunteered to be on snack duty tonight.”

Washington blushed slightly, the expression looking out of place on his battle-weary features as Tucker let out a sharp burst of laughter from where he had appeared in the hallway, “Seriously, dude? Wash, you’re totally the official team mom now!” The dark-skinned man teased.

The laughter that suddenly erupted from everyone within earshot at poor, flustered Washington’s expense was downright infectious, especially when the former Freelancer’s mouth curved upwards slightly.

Simmons couldn’t help but find himself joining in, feeling more at ease in that particular moment than he had in a long while.

*****

It wasn’t until well into the early hours of that morning that Grif entered the temporary residence set up for the Reds and Blues during their stay on Chorus. Following Bitters and Matthews’ strategic retreat from the restaurant, Kai had departed herself with some further advice to her big bro about getting his head in the game and actively going for something that would make him happy for once in his life.

Which was easy for her to say, all things considered. The universe always had a way of dragging Dexter Grif down, and as much as he wanted to be with Simmons, was it worth potentially wrecking what they had now? Wouldn’t he just drag him down too?

That was something the redhead most certainly did not need right now.

So, the orange-armored man wandered the streets of Chorus and pondered for who knew how long, only growing more and more frustrated with his useless self at not having figured anything out.

Becoming invested in things, in people? Well, it absolutely and majorly sucked. And yet, he didn’t want to stop or regret doing so for the few things he _did_ care about, for the things he was constantly terrified of somehow ruining. It was a major drag.

The one benefit of wandering back in to their temporary residence when he did was that even the two Freelancers, Sarge, and Locus were apparently not up and about. Which was great since he wasn’t really in the mood for insults and incredibly awkward but well-intentioned attempts at conversation.

Lopez, however, was sitting at the communal kitchen, looking down at the now decidedly pink tips of his metal gauntlets. The robot looked up at Grif briefly when he entered and let out a defeated sigh.

“Debería haberme ido antes de que el rosado me ofreciera pintar mis uñas inexistentes.” _{“I should have left before the pink one offered to paint my nonexistent nails.”}_

His explanation had Grif shrugging dismissively before he started walking away. That was definitely a Donut sleepover mistake you only had to learn about once.

“Estás siendo incluso más tonto que de costumbre.” _{“You're being even dumber than usual.”}_

The heavyset man paused, having not expected Lopez to speak up again. The robot shook his brown helmeted head in exasperation.

“Ambos necesitan el otro. Es hora de que idiotas dejen de evitar eso.” _{“You both need the other. It's time you idiots stop avoiding that.”}_

Grif pretended not to have heard him, trudging up the stairs instead.

Lopez had apparently left the door open to Donut’s room when he had made his escape, and the scene inside was one of utter chaos.

There were magazines, books, and video-watching tablets strewn across the unused bed. That teddy bear that Caboose had given Simmons was propped up with one of the video pads on the pillow as if it had been watching a movie.

There was a heap of blankets and pillows on the floor, Donut and Andersmith sleeping side-by-side while Caboose hugged Simmons in his sleep.

The expression on Simmons’ face wasn’t clouded over or twisted with discomfort and horrific nightmares just then. The redhead almost looked content for the first time that Grif could remember in a long while.

The tan-skinned man smiled slightly at the sight, a sharp pull hitting his chest as he reluctantly tore his gaze away finally. His feet once again led him instinctively to Simmons’ door, and he stood before it while taking in a deep, shaky breath of air.

*****

_Simmons found himself standing in a dark, empty space that seemed to close in around him in a suffocating fashion. He shuddered and wrapped his arms around himself, fear and trepidation bubbling up to the surface inside of him._

_Not again, not now. He couldn’t…!_

_The cyborg looked down at where the ground beneath his feet should be when a distinctive glimmer caught his eye. The breath froze in his lungs, his chest gears’ movements becoming painful._

_He was surrounded on all sides, as far as the eye could see in the limiting blackness around him, by the fractured shards of what had once been a monumentally huge mirror._

_Only, instead of his own reflection staring hauntingly back at him, he only saw a maroon helmet with a blue visor instead._

_“No one ever really cared to tell the difference between us.” Gene’s voice taunted from everywhere and nowhere all at once in a smug, sing-song fashion._

_Simmons couldn’t speak, but he shook his head fervently in protest all the same._

_“We’re more alike than different. You weren’t able to do anything without me.” Gene carried on, ignoring Simmons’ obvious distress, “I made fucking sure of that.”_

_That was right, the redhead thought with growing dread, falling onto suddenly very weak knees. He hadn’t been able to do anything, and that had been terrible enough. But then the others had to rescue him, they all saw and knew and…_

_“No one else will ever want someone so pathetic and weak around.”_

_The gloating continued, becoming a wordless cacophony in his ears that managed to carve itself into his very being as it continued to be Gene who was looking up at him through his reflections._

_Simmons’ hands clenched painfully into trembling fists as he cowered._

_He wanted so desperately to break the mirror just then, but it was already shattered._

Simmons woke up with a heavy start and a strangled gasp, finding it very difficult to breathe, Caboose’s bear hug notwithstanding.

The cyborg had to position himself very carefully to avoid hurting his recuperating arm in his sleep. The panic started declining at the realization that he was still very much in Donut’s room and surrounded by some of his dear, goofball friends.

The maroon-wearing man smiled slightly at the reminder before somehow miraculously managing to maneuver and wiggle himself out of Caboose’s protective, powered-by-friendship grip. The younger man grimaced slightly in his sleep before promptly rolling over and crashing into Andersmith, resulting in a sleepy _“group huddle”_ that Donut would no doubt cheerfully refer to as a threesome at some point once they woke up.

The mugs, all four of theirs along with Lopez’s motor oil one and the cups that everyone else had left behind following the first wave of hot chocolate they had all enjoyed while huddled together in Donut’s room despite his earlier _“crammed”_ remarks, had been removed at some point after they had fallen asleep.

Simmons suspected Carolina’s stealthy handiwork, as she had said that she would see to dish cleanup if Washington was on snack duty. Tucker had rolled his eyes at the former Freelancer and asked her why everything had to be a fucking contest, to which she simply smirked and said that he was just mad because she was clearly winning.

Simmons stood up on shaky feet, not wanting to disturb the others. As grateful as he was for their support, he didn’t want to burden them with the aftermath of another nightmare.

If he stayed in the room any longer, he had the terrifying if illogical thought that the lingering anxiety and negativity from this latest one would somehow infect them too and he didn’t want that.

The redhead carefully edged over to the thankfully open doorway, taking a few minutes for his breathing to become less erratic. Once it felt more normal he stepped out, only to pause at the sight of the heavyset figure standing in front of his bedroom door.

Dexter Grif appeared to be just as shocked at Simmons’ sudden appearance in the hallway, his brown and green eyes widening in surprise.

Simmons’ throat suddenly felt very dry as he swallowed nervously.

There were so many things that he wanted to say or do, but his brain seemed intent on failing him as all that squeaked out was, “Wh…what are you doing?”

Grif’s gaze went from Simmons to his bedroom door then back to Simmons as he rubbed the back of his head nervously, “I was just going to get some of my things out of your room before you had a conniption fit.”

“Oh.” Simmons nodded his head in understanding, “So does that mean the rats are gone then?”

“What?” The blank look on Grif’s face was rather perplexing, to say the least.

“Donut said you’d been sleeping in my room because of rats in yours.” He explained lamely.

A slight flicker of recognition came across his tanned face then, “Right,” Grif replied unconvincingly, “Rats.”

“You know,” Simmons couldn’t help but add, “If you cleaned up your dirty plates every once in a while that wouldn’t happen.”

“Oh, quiet, Simmons. You’ve always been jealous of my plate-stacking skills and you know it.”

The response was immediate, and both men smiled softly at the other at the remembered, comforting steps of their usual routine.

But, just as quickly, the air became tense and uncomfortable again as Grif averted his gaze, “What are you doing up?” He finally asked.

Simmons blinked at the quiet question thrown his way, looking down at the floor himself, “I couldn’t sleep.” He admitted rather weakly.

“Ah.” was Grif’s only comment.

Simmons felt the need to elaborate for some reason, as if afraid that this conversation he had finally been able to start up with Grif by accident might dissipate if he didn’t, “I—I really didn’t want to ruin everyone’s night, so…” He trailed off, not liking how pathetic that sounded.

Grif said nothing, instead turning to face the door to Simmons’ room once more. He opened it silently, motioning with his pale hand over his shoulder for Simmons to follow him inside. Simmons, not really wanting to stand in an anxious mess in the hallway for someone else to find, hesitatingly did so.

His room, oddly enough, wasn’t really in a disorganized mess regardless of Grif having been apparently camping out in it.

His bed was a bit more rumpled than he would have usually left it, but that was about it. Though, as Simmons slipped past Grif and further into the space, he could definitely smell Grif’s scent lingering there, even at his organized work desk.

It was a smell he had started to find oddly comforting at some point over their time together.

Grif softly closed the door, a grimace resting on his face as he opened his mouth to say something.

_“I’m sorry.”_

Simmons, however, beat him to it.

The apology gave the chubby man pause, and Grif blinked in surprise as he regarded Simmons, “Can you repeat that?”

Simmons closed his eyes and let out a shaky breath, “I’m sorry, Grif.” He repeated more succinctly this time, the words spilling from his mouth even before he could really register them as he looked over at Grif imploringly, “I’m a shitty teammate and friend. I really didn’t want to make everyone worry, and I totally understand if you hate me and are disgusted by me now.” He let out a watery, half-hearted sort-of laugh, “If you think about it, I’m really more the hate glue and it’s no wonder things are so fucking awkward between us now because I’m a loser who can’t speak up about anything and if you don’t want to hang out anymore I get it because—”

Grif’s eyes narrowed dangerously the more the rambling continued, “Simmons, shut the fuck up.” He finally spat out.

The normally apathetic man’s angry tone just then caused Simmons to flinch, and he shakily moved past the tan-skinned man to get to the door again, both eyes burning as his green one filled with tears, “S—sorry.” Simmons babbled nervously, “I can’t…can’t even get _this_ out right…”

He was stopped from leaving the room when two hands fell on his shoulders as Grif gently spun the redhead back around to face him. Grif didn’t let go of Simmons and his expression when he stared at the cyborg was disconcertingly unreadable.

“That is all because of what that fucking asshole Gene did to you.” Grif stated, a raw tone to his voice as if he was both angry and hurting all at once.

Simmons hated hearing it, “M—maybe.” He conceded, voice shaking more than just a little bit, “But that wouldn’t have happened in the first place if I wasn’t so stupid and…”

Grif’s tan finger carefully traced the knife scar underneath Simmons’ eye, causing him to trail off again, holding in his breath out of absolute shock.

Before he could gather enough of his wits about him to ask what it was that Grif was doing, he was suddenly pulled into an embrace. The orange-wearing man even tried to be mindful of his braced arm, a tenderness that the redhead wasn’t anticipating.

Simmons remained frozen in shock at this unexpected action, but he was aware of his heart-gear pumping exceptionally hard. His face was already close to burning when he felt Grif’s breath ghosting over his neck.

“I should be the one to say sorry.” Grif told him as he circled his arms protectively around Simmons even more, “I hadn’t meant to let any of you be alone again, and I had especially wanted to tell you everything and…”

The dark-haired man trailed off, voice sounding just as shaky as Simmons’ had earlier.

Simmons blinked, “G—Grif…?” He finally managed to stammer out.

The hug somehow became even tighter, and Simmons felt himself starting to melt into the warmth that Grif’s steadying presence close by provided, “I just…I didn’t know how to deal with you getting hurt.” Grif said.

The admission was probably enough to set Simmons’ whole body ablaze, and he smiled tentatively, “It sucked for me too, Grif.” More than he’d probably ever be able to vocalize except maybe one day in the future when he might be able to share it with Grif at least, though even more than that, he realized, “I don’t want you getting hurt either.”

Grif loosened his hold enough so that he could look Simmons in the eye, smirking self-deprecatingly, “We’re both fucking idiots, huh?”

“Definitely.” Simmons was quick to agree before he leaned over and touched Grif’s mouth softly with his own.

Grif’s eyes were blown wide open in shock when Simmons reluctantly pulled away from the contact. He blushed heavily, shyly starting to mutter out an apology that he was quick to cut off when he felt Grif’s arms squeeze tighter around him.

“If you’re going to say sorry again, then you had better shut the fuck up now, kiss-ass.”

Simmons was quick to return Grif’s smirk in kind a moment later.

*****

It wasn’t long afterwards that Simmons managed to shed his pajamas with Grif’s attentive help, anxiously and rather fearfully letting the other man get a better look at all of the new scars and discolorations dotting his freckled body.

They were reminders of things Simmons would be quite happy to never dwell on again, physical markings that were going to stay with him just as surely as all of the memories and nightmares would.

He shuddered at the thought, disgusted at the notion of not only himself having to constantly carry that with him but at the possibility of what they represented always being there for Grif too now, of what Grif probably thought about them and of Simmons.

He was about to reach for his clothes and bolt in sheer terror at how stupid he had been to have even suggested this in the first place because what the fuck had he been thinking, had he been so drunk on delirious happiness at his and Grif’s talk that he had lost all common sense and shame?

But, Grif reached out and pulled Simmons’ shivering, lanky form close again.

The orange-wearing man said nothing, though his hands and mouth quickly took note of each and every mark, his touches surprisingly reassuring and tender all the while.

It was as if he wanted to adore every feature because they were a part of _Simmons_.

Simmons wrapped his cybernetic arm around Grif, his natural limb in the brace nestled protectively between the two of them.

He smiled back at Grif, and for the first time in a long while that he could remember, the reflection that Simmons caught of himself in the other man’s eyes was one that he actually wanted to see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have reached the ending! *doses head in a bucket of water* In all honesty, I’m not quite sure how I feel about this third chapter as I probably didn’t delve into the psychological aftermath of what had happened nearly as well as someone else might have done, but I wanted to end things on a more positive note at least for poor Simmons and Grif. Understandably, there’s certainly still quite a lot of healing and recovery that Simmons would need to go through in particular, but at least now he has Grif with him to help him through that and a whole bunch of other supportive people too!
> 
> Straight up romantic scenes are always something of a struggle for me, even though I am a sucker for them and will always try to write them no matter what. XD
> 
> Hopefully my writing schedule will get back to its regular routine again now that this story is wrapped up. For one of my smaller chaptered stories, this guy ended up having crazy page count numbers with every update! :D
> 
> Thank you so, so much again for reading this experimental, out-of-my-usual-comfort-zone story all the way to its conclusion. I hope that there were at least a couple of parts in this aftermath portion that you enjoyed! :D You guys are truly the best! :)
> 
> {BTW, I was so tempted to name Cuddles _“Beepo”_ instead…you have no idea. Any other _Legends of Tomorrow_ fans out there? XD}


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